


Darker Sooner

by HailMary



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Guilt, Informant, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-04
Updated: 2013-12-12
Packaged: 2017-12-17 15:36:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 54,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/869149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HailMary/pseuds/HailMary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A story in which Grantaire is offered a choice: either become the government's mole in the Friends of the ABC or suffer the consequences. He chooses to be a mole.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bad Decisions

With one hand strangling the neck of his three-dollar vodka and the other splayed against the gritty brick wall next to him, some long-dormant instinct thumped to life in Grantaire’s chest. Alcohol had long since numbed him to fear, but his body still knew: this was going to hurt.

Vodka bottle at the ready, he rushed forward – or made a valiant attempt to rush, at least – on legs that felt like they’d been hollowed out and filled with wet cement. Grantaire grimaced as he stumbled over his own feet but kept going. As every good drunk knew, grace was not a requirement for back alley brawls. Neither was speed. Or the ability to win.

Which was perfect for Grantaire, because he was definitely going to lose.

He’d been wandering home from Eponine’s, enjoying the way the cool dawn breeze felt against his booze-hot skin, when he’d seen a little street kid with lank, greasy hair dart into an alley across the street. Three officers had thudded into the alley close on the boy’s heels, stun batons drawn.

Grantaire stared after them, swaying slightly. The kid must have stolen something. Food, probably. Food was hard to come by these days, especially for the lower classes, and there was no way that boy wasn’t starving. He’d looked like a dirty stick insect dressed in even dirtier charity store castoffs.

There was also no way the officers were going to let the kid leave that alley. In General Jean Etienne’s New Order, a thief was a thief regardless of age, and all thieves were punished to the fullest extent of the law. Etienne’s officers were empowered to enforce the law in whichever manner they deemed most appropriate, and that manner always seemed to include caving in skulls.

He shouldn’t have stopped. Kids got beat, people were disappeared off the street in broad daylight, and students were censored. That was life, and he’d never had a problem walking away before. Why bother when he couldn’t change any of it? He should have kept his head down, gone home, and slept off the night before.

But he did stop. Grantaire stopped, swayed, and staggered until he had one hand strangling the neck of his three-dollar vodka and one hand splayed against the gritty brick wall of the alley. By the time he got close enough to see what was happening, the officers already had the kid cornered.

Hatred flash burned through his body, a tsunami of fire devouring brittle, dry scrub brush. As a rule, he tried as hard as possible to feel as little as possible, so the intensity of his hatred left him gasping. There’s a bitter joy in going down in flames. The hatred felt pure and purifying as it seared the lingering reservations from his mind.

That left Grantaire free to do what he did best: rush headlong into his own destruction. He crashed into the closest officer with a hoarse shout, bringing the half-full bottle down on the man’s helmeted head.

Vodka and glass exploded over both of them, the alcohol stinging where it mixed into the cuts left behind by the glass. Wet patches of black crept across the officer’s steel blue uniform. Now both of them reeked of liquor.

The officer wasn’t actually hurt – perhaps Grantaire should have aimed for a part of the body not covered in armor – and he recovered from his shock quickly. If Grantaire were a different man, he might be impressed by the officer’s reaction time; as things stood, he barely had time to blink before the man was whipping his stun baton into Grantaire’s knee.

“Oh, fuck!” The muscles in his leg spasmed uncontrollably as his knee bent sideways, and he toppled over onto the wet ground. At least the alcohol in his system dulled the sharpest edges of the pain. “Run, kid!”

The boy didn’t need to be told twice. Terror did nothing to slow him as he dodged past his would-be captors with little trouble. They must have been too distracted by the idiot who’d attacked three armed officers to stop him.

Grantaire, meanwhile, was paying the price for the kid’s freedom. The officer he’d assaulted had one knee on top of Grantaire’s head and was using it to grind his face into the rough asphalt of the alley floor. Rocks gouged deep gashes into the pale skin over his forehead and cheeks, leaving streaks of red on black. The officer’s other knee was dug into the small of Grantaire’s back, pinning him tight to the ground.

One of the other officers wrenched Grantaire’s arms behind his back and tightened a zip tie around his wrists, making damn sure that the bones ground against each other painfully. When he was done, the officer sat back on his heels and caught Grantaire’s eye. The man’s dark hair was military short, and his face looked like ash in the weak light of dawn.

“I don’t know if you’re stupid or brave, son,” said the officer, his voice light and false. Grantaire rolled his eyes, hard. The officer couldn’t have had more than five years on Grantaire, and he certainly wasn’t old enough to be calling anyone son. “You can roll your eyes all you want. The fact is you just threw your life away for some criminal.”

The officer reached into Grantaire’s pocket and pulled out his wallet. When he opened it a crumpled receipt fell out, along with a half-smoked joint, a condom, and picture of Grantaire’s mother. Brushing aside the detritus, the officer flipped open the wallet’s inner pocket and pulled out Grantaire’s ID.

“So, Grantaire, is it? You’re a student. What a waste.” He tsked softly.  

Grantaire wanted to shrug, but his shoulders were already protesting the tight binding of his wrists. Instead he flashed a sardonic smile to convey exactly how much he did not care. His life was never going to mean anything anyway. Why prolong the inevitable?

The officer looked slightly put out by the lack of response, but cheered himself up by pulling a black hood over Grantaire’s head.

After that, Grantaire was lifted by his shoulders and partly carried, partly dragged towards what was presumably the officers’ transport. He would have preferred to walk under his own power, but the blow from the stun baton had deadened the nerves in his thigh and the rest of his leg felt like static snow on a disconnected television. When they reached the transport the two officers holding his arms lifted him up and dumped him in the back.

Grantaire sat silently on his bench while the transport moved, which was difficult as he was becoming more nauseated by the second. His leg hurt and his shoulders hurt and the air inside the hood was becoming thicker and wetter and hotter each time he exhaled. Lightheaded and still a little drunk, he struggled not to puke inside the hood. He doubted the officers would be kind enough to take it off, no matter what bodily fluids he spewed inside it.

Grantaire spent the remainder of the trip struggling against nausea and regretting his life choices.

Finally, the transport stopped and Grantaire was hauled out. His leg had recovered well enough for him to hobble under his own power, but the officers maintained too-hard grips on his biceps anyway. Cold, conditioned air pebbled the skin of his arms as he was marched indoors. Even through the oppressive hood, Grantaire could taste the canned, chemical flavor of oxygen that had been recycled one too many times.

After a short walk and three left turns, he was jerked to a halt. His hands were cut free from the zip tie, but the bindings were immediately replaced by a stun baton pressed to the back of his neck. “Strip,” said a new voice from the other side of the room, “and before you ask, yes, that means everything.”

Inside the hood, Grantaire squeezed his eyes shut and gritted his teeth. Fucking of course, they wanted him naked. Power was all about taking what other people have.

The stun baton pressed harder into the back of his neck, warning him of the consequences of anything but immediate, complete compliance. Stiffly and methodically, Grantaire peeled off his long-sleeved shirt – his favorite one with the black and gray stripes – and then kicked off his jeans. He saved his boxers for last, pushing them down without hesitation and dropping them with an exaggerated flourish.  

The deed done, his guards sat him on a metal chair that may as well have been sculpted from ice for how freezing it was. Maybe their first torture was castration via super chilled chair? Knowing the government, it was not outside the realm of possibility.

Once his hands were secured to a ring bolted onto the table in front of him, the hood was ripped from his head. The harsh white light of the naked bulbs on the ceiling cut like razors, drawing tears from his dilated eyes.

Grantaire squinted painfully, doing is best to make out the blurry person on the other side of the table. It was a man, tall, middle-aged, gray creeping into his otherwise black hair. His face was irregular and craggy, like he had once been handsome but years of weather and work and anger had eroded him like water through a canyon. He was thick around the waist, the telltale sign of someone used to sitting in rooms like this one.

“Grantaire,” the man said, his voice deep and scratchy. His expression was deadly serious. “Welcome to the Bureau of National Security. I am Officer Javert. You have been charged with three separate counts of assault and battery against an officer, obstructing an officer, resisting arrest, disorderly conduct, public drunkenness, and conspiracy against the New Order. How do you plead?”

Grantaire wished he could push the sweaty strands of hair off his forehead, but he also wished he could put on clothes and go home and sleep. None of those things were likely to happen. “Does it matter?”

“Of course. If you break a law you take responsibility for it and face the consequences with a straight back. That’s what makes a man a man. That’s justice.”

“In that case,” said Grantaire as he leaned forward and flashed a mocking smile, “fuck your charges.”

Justice. That was the funniest joke he’d heard in a long time.

Javert didn’t see the humor. His expression hardened further, something Grantaire had not thought possible. “Then I’ll leave you here to think on it.” He walked toward the door, his posture impeccable. “I’ll return presently. I suggest you use your time to think about the importance of cooperation.”

Then he left and Grantaire was left to wait. And wait. And wait. As the hours passed, the room seemed to get even colder, leaving him shivering in his skin. Dehydration had given him a cotton mouth and a pounding headache. At least the chair had warmed up.

With little else to do and nothing to take his mind off how uncomfortable he was Grantaire studied the room. It was small enough to feel claustrophobic, and every surface was painted the same steel blue as the officers’ uniforms.

The only break in the monotony was a strange, out of place poster hung next to the door. The poster was one of those awful motivational ones, the kind a micromanaging boss would hang in an office to crush the spirits of the workers in their cubes. It showed a kitten hanging from a rope by its front paws. Under the kitten were the words _Commitment: Success seems to be largely a matter of hanging on after others have let go_.  

Well. That was ominous. Like watching little kids sing Ring-Around-the-Rosie.

Eventually, Grantaire put his head on his outstretched arms and tried to forget how badly he had to piss.

He must have fallen asleep because he was startled awake by Javert coming back into the room. A file of loose paper was clutched in the man’s right hand, and he carried a nondescript black duffle bag in his left. His face was stony as ever.

Javert sat across from him and laid the file open on the table. He plucked out a high def photograph and pushed it towards Grantaire without saying a word.

The photograph was at such an angle and from such a distance that it was clear the subject was not aware she was being photographed. She was walking down the street, a book bag slung over one shoulder. Her short, dark hair glimmered in the sun, and her brown skin looked flawless against her yellow shirt.

It was Eponine. His best friend. His only friend, really.

“Do you know this woman?” Javert asked, his tone making it clear he already knew the answer.

Grantaire watched Javert warily. “What is this?”

“Eponine Thernardier. Twenty-one years old, a student, has recently started attending the recruitment meetings of a dissident group who call themselves the Friends of the ABC. Am I ringing any bells?”

Grantaire frowned. Friends of the ABC? Was that where she’d been disappearing to lately? She’d mentioned that she’d joined some club because she was into one of the guys that showed up at the meetings, but she hadn’t said anything about them being a dissident group.

Maybe that’s because she knew how he felt about dissident groups.

“What do you want from me?” he asked.

“The New Order has an active interest in the activities of this group, but they are frustratingly insular in a number of ways. We need you to use your connection with Ms. Thernardier to become a member of the group. Then you’ll gather information and report back to me,” said Javert. “If you do this and the information you provide proves useful we will drop the charges against you. You would be free to go. That is far more than you deserve.”

Oh, that looked like it hurt Javert to say. “And if I tell you to fuck off?”

“If that is your choice then you will remain here for the remainder of your life. We will also bring in Ms. Thernardier and the little thief you attempted to liberate. Do you understand?”

"How do I know you won't wait until I've done what you want and then kill us all anyway," Grantaire asked, skeptical.

"You don't," Javert said without a trace of amusement or irony. "I assure you, however, that I am a man of my word."

They had him. He couldn’t say no. He didn’t want to say no. His life, Eponine’s life, and the street kid’s life in exchange for information about some would-be rebellion that was doomed to failure anyway? What was there to think about?

“I’ll do it,” Grantaire said. Guilt ping ponged somewhere in the depths of his withered heart, but it was easy to ignore.

“Of course,” Javert continued with a curt nod, “if you renege on our deal or tell anyone what you’re doing, your life and the lives of your two friends are forfeit. And while we may have trouble infiltrating the upper echelons of the Friends, that does not mean we’ll have trouble tracking _your_ every move. One wrong word and we’ll find another way to do this.”

Threats completed, Javert produced a key from his pocket and unlocked Grantaire’s hands from the ring on the table. Once Grantaire’s hands were free, he threw over the duffle bag. It contained all the clothes Grantaire had been wearing when he was arrested, all of them freshly laundered.

“Put those on,” Javert said. “Then we’ll go over the details.”

Grantaire stood, holding himself against the table to keep from sinking back down. Sitting so long in the same position after a stun baton blow was not conducive to ease of movement. When he was confident he could stand on his own, he began to put on his boxers. He still had questions though, and this seemed the time to ask. “So, why me? I’m sure there are a lot of people more qualified to do this.”

Javert brought the palm of one hand up to rub his eye. “You’re in the right place at the right time. When you were brought in, we ran the standard background check. Ms. Thernardier showed up on your list of close associates. The plan was formulated from there.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“So why not just kill everyone in the group and be done with it, if you already know who they are?” Grantaire finished getting dressed and sat down again.

“Because they’re planning something, and we need to know what. If we kill them now, others could carry on their work. We don’t want to risk that. We need to pull this traitorous weed out by the roots,” said Javert. He pulled three more photographs from the file and spread them in front of Grantaire. “These are the three leaders. They do most of the planning by themselves in secret and communicate with the rest of the group later. They’re the ones we haven’t been able to touch. The ones you need to get close to.”

Javert pointed to the picture of a bookish looking man with glasses. “This is Combeferre.” Next he touched the picture of a man with dark curls - they looked the way Grantaire’s curls probably would if he bothered to take care of them - who had a wicked glint in his dark brown eyes. “This is Courfeyrac.”

“And this one,” he said softly, stroking his finger across the third picture, “is the leader. This is Enjolras.”

Grantaire stared at the photographs, eyes wide, because, seriously? The first two men were attractive, but that Enjolras was on a whole other level. In the photograph he was standing on a stage wearing black slacks and a brilliant red jacket. Golden curls fell across his forehead, softening the sharp edges of his jaw. Even through the still frame of the picture, Grantaire could feel the passion radiating from every line of his body.

How did a man who looked like that get mixed up in rebellion?

“Earn their trust, serve General Etienne well, and you’ll have your life back,” said Javert.

“Okay,” Grantaire whispered, still looking at the picture of Enjolras. “Okay.” 


	2. Day One

Grantaire slipped into his dark apartment in the middle of the night, exhausted. Javert had taken forever to explain the reporting procedures; that, combined with hours of naked fear – literally naked, in this case – and a night of heavy drinking and no sleep had taken its toll.

His apartment was a truly pathetic thing, a fourth floor walk-up in a squat, ugly building. When he walked in the front door he was immediately standing in the kitchen, which was the generous name the landlord had given the refrigerator and oven situated on the right side of the entryway. A tiny bathroom branched away from the kitchen, a room so small he had to put one leg in the bathtub when he sat on the toilet. Ten steps beyond the entryway was his living room, which doubled as his bedroom when he flattened his futon. There was heat, thank God, but in the summer he could fry eggs on the linoleum floor.

The apartment’s only saving graces were its low rent and its proximity to the university, but even the proximity part was questionable; what use was it being close to the university when Grantaire hardly ever went to class?

Completely done with life for the moment, Grantaire shoved the stacks of books and empty cans off his futon and crashed.

When he finally woke, it was to the sound of his phone ringing. Grantaire groaned miserably into his pillow but rolled off the futon anyway, reaching for his phone where it had fallen under the table. It was an older model, most likely obsolete but damn near indestructible.

A quick glance at the screen let him know it was Eponine. “Hey.”

“Hey yourself, asshole,” she said, her voice tinny and angry over the phone’s crappy speakers. “What happened to you? I told you to check in when you got back. It’s been twenty-four hours.”

“Yeah, sorry. Something came up,” he said. Shifting the phone to his other hand, he dug a bottle of aspirin from under a pile of clothes. He levered open the cap, poured four pills into his palm, and knocked them back with warm, stale beer from the half-empty can sitting on the floor next to him. “Can you meet me for lunch? I haven’t eaten in forever and there’s nothing at mine.”

Eponine sighed dramatically, the gust of air crackling over the line. “Ugh, fine. Flowers at noon, ok?”

“Ok.”

“And if the ‘something’ that came up is any kind of chemical, may God have mercy on your soul because I will not. Got it?”

“It’s not like that, Ep. I swear. I just need to talk to you.”

“Alright,” Eponine said, hesitating at his seriousness. Worry crept into her voice. “Hey, you’re ok, right?”

Grantaire grimaced. “Yeah.”

“See you at noon?”

“Yes. See you then.”

Grantaire hung up and banged his head against the floor a few times to remind himself that he was indeed awake. How was he going to pull this off? Sure, he’d always had a liberal attitude toward lying. After all, it was pointless to fight human nature, and human nature was uniquely duplicitous. He didn’t even feel bad when he lied to Eponine; he lied to her all the time, sometimes for no reason at all, and she didn’t care. Well, most of the time, she didn’t care.

This fucked up situation, however, was an altogether different animal. This wasn’t your run-of-the-mill lie.

Grantaire hit his head against the floor one last time. At least Eponine would be alive. At least that kid would be alive. That’s what mattered. If Grantaire had to work for Etienne and screw over a group of doomed idealists to make that happen, he would. Better Grantaire the Traitor than Eponine the Corpse.   

Eponine was already seated when he got to Flowers. The restaurant was a renovated flower shop – hence the name – located only a few blocks from the university. An eccentric mishmash of thrift shop tables and chairs provided a kitschy contrast to the polished chrome walls. Grantaire hated it because it tried way too hard. Eponine loved it because it had a half-price vegetarian lunch buffet on Tuesdays and Thursdays.

He stared at the buffet as he made his way to Eponine’s table. Hunger chewed at his belly, but after the past few days the sight of so much food made him vaguely ill. That kid had risked death for what, a loaf of bread? A piece of fruit, maybe? And here in the U-District the kids with money were lunching at buffets. It didn’t feel right.

And yet, the people he was working for were the people who wanted things like this. He wondered if Javert was watching him right now.

“Hey,” he said as he slid into the chair.

Eponine put down the book she’d been reading and gave him a once over. “You’re wearing the same clothes you were wearing the last time I saw you. And you have cuts all over your face.”

Grantaire blinked. He’d forgotten about his clothes. “Um, yeah. That’s what I need to talk to you about.”

Eponine, bless her heart, didn’t waste time with questions. “Ok, spill.”

With a deep breath and prayer to a god he’d never believed in, Grantaire launched into his speech. He glanced at the neighboring tables automatically to see if anyone was listening. “When I was walking back from your place the other morning, I saw a bunch of officers beat up this little kid.” Mixing a few lies with a lot of truth was the way to go with Eponine. Otherwise, she would see right through this. “They beat him and dragged him into their transport. When they saw me watching, a couple of them came over and roughed me up.”

Eponine looked concerned, but she also knew Grantaire. “First, are you crazy? They could have taken you too, and then who would I drink with? Second, while that is awful and fucked up, it’s nothing you haven’t seen before.”

“Yeah, but this time…I don’t know, Ep. This time was different. Something snapped. I can’t do nothing. Not anymore.”

 Skepticism was writ large across Eponine’s face. It almost made Grantaire want to smile; she was the smarter of the two of them, for sure. “Who are you and what have you done with Grantaire? Babe, I love you like there’s no tomorrow, but you’re an asshole and the worst kind of downer.”

“I’m not saying I think I’ll make a difference. It’s just…if we’re all damned no matter what we do, I may as well be on the side that doesn’t kill kids. Even an asshole can see the logic in that.”

Eponine’s face relaxed into thoughtfulness. She pursed her lips, her brown eyes staring right into his faded blue ones. “Ok. I get why you sounded so weird on the phone now.” She lowered her voice and leaned forward, pushing her book out of the way with a sharp elbow. “You know that club I told you about? The one where I see Marius?”

This was it. “Yeah.”

“The people there…they talk about these things. I didn’t think it was your scene, but maybe you’d like to come? There’s a meeting tonight at the Café Musain.”       

“Yeah?” Grantaire feigned ignorance, trying hard to pretend like he hadn’t already known that. “Will there be alcohol?”

“And you're back. Not that this isn’t a welcome change.” Eponine clasped his hand briefly and gave a wry smile. “Wine and beer only. You want something harder, you smuggle it in. We can talk more then.”

Grantaire watched her head for the buffet under the pretext of checking a message on his phone. He needed a moment to push down the dread churning his stomach.

 

* * *

 

After his lunch with Eponine, he’d been so desperate for a distraction that he’d actually gone to class. It was the intro level geology class he’d signed up for because he’d heard it was easy; he must have heard right, because it was the only class he still had a decent grade in. As he listened to the professor drone on about plate tectonics for an hour and fifty minutes, he managed to fall into a hazy, eyes-open daze.

When the class let out, Grantaire had simply wandered, never dallying in one place too long. Due to an increase in student activism on campus there were officers everywhere, and Grantaire hadn’t wanted to draw attention. He knew the impulse was futile – the lay low ship had already sailed, obviously – but most of the things Grantaire did were futile, and that had never stopped him before.

Which was why, when the time came to meet Eponine, Grantaire had let his feet lead him to the café. The Café Musain was one of the oldest cafés in the city, a two story brick building with ivy fanned across its front. For years the front entrance to the café had faced a rundown pizza joint, but the pizza joint had recently been demolished and replaced with a high rise apartment building. Now the front entrance was hidden in an ill-lit alley, making it difficult to track the comings and goings of the people who frequented the place.

Grantaire could see why the Friends had picked it, but he still felt a shiver go up his spine as he approached Eponine, who stood in the shadows around the door. As far as he was concerned, alleys could go fuck themselves. They were nothing but trouble.

They went inside, and Grantaire ordered a beer before climbing the rickety stairs to the second floor. Eponine walked ahead of him, looking back every few seconds to see if he was still following. Every time she looked, she seemed surprised to find him there.

Not that he could blame her. He was surprised to find himself there too. A hundred conflicting thoughts winged through his brain, none of them good.

Then the door to the group’s private room was opening and there was no more time to think.

Whatever he’d expected, this wasn’t it. The tables in the room had been pushed together into one super table, with a handful of people sat around the perimeter. Other young people were perched on window sills, on the floor, or on the tables themselves. Laughter and lively conversation washed over him, beckoning him forward.

Eponine wasted no time crowding him toward two men standing together by the door. One of the men was tall and freckled, his blue eyes as large as Eponine’s. He looked a little lost, but brightened when he saw them coming. The other man was shorter and thin, with a strong nose and white blond hair that fell well past his shoulders. Judging by the relative darkness of the roots, however, the white blond came from a bottle. Eponine greeted them cheerfully, saying, “How have you been, you bastards?”

“Eponine!” the freckled one said, kissing her on the cheek. “I didn’t know if you were going to make it.”

“I couldn’t miss it. I have someone who’s interested in our little operation. Marius, Jehan, this is my good friend Grantaire. Grantaire, this is Marius,” she said as she waved her hand at the freckled one, “and Jehan,” she said, gesturing to the blond.

Grantaire quirked one side of his mouth up into a half smile as he shook the freckled guy’s hand. So this was Marius. He should have known; Eponine had always loved puppies. He shook hands with Jehan as well, the other man giving him a serious nod.

Introductions over, Eponine cornered poor Marius like a lion with a gazelle, leaving Grantaire alone with Jehan. Feeling a little awkward and not at all drunk enough, Grantaire said, “So, Jehan, that’s a weird fucking name. I’ve never heard it before.”

“I should think not,” said Jehan. His voice was lower than Grantaire had expected, but smooth at the same time, like a stream running over rounded stones. He was wearing all black: black long-sleeved shirt, black vest, tight black jeans, black boots. Even his fingernails were painted black, though half the polish had chipped off. “I made it up. My given name is Jean, but I would rather swan dive into traffic than share anything with Etienne.”

Silence fell between them. Grantaire took a swig of beer, wondering what he should say next. Javert had obviously picked the wrong guy to spy; if Grantaire couldn’t make small talk, how was he going to win the trust of three of the most paranoid men in the city? He mentally cursed Eponine for abandoning him so soon. He’d been counting on her to act as his buffer.

Jehan didn’t seem disturbed by the silence. He tilted his head at Grantaire, his long hair falling in front of his face. He pushed it back behind his ear and asked, “Are you always this socially maladroit, or is it just nerves?”

Panic flared in Grantaire’s chest. He froze, his beer halfway to his mouth. Jehan couldn’t possibly be able to tell.  

“Because if it’s nerves, that’s fine. You should be nervous. We’re all completely fucked. And now that you’re here, you’re fucked.” Jehan reached into his back pocket and pulled out a black leather flask. He took a drink and then offered it to Grantaire, one eyebrow arched in invitation. “So you may as well drink the hard stuff.”

Relief nearly brought Grantaire to his knees. He’d better get used to this soon, or he was going to have a heart attack. He finished his own beer before accepting the flask. “No, I’m just peachy,” he said sarcastically. Sarcasm was familiar territory. “But I never turn down free booze.” He took a long pull from the flask. It was scotch, he thought, and not the bad stuff either. The taste of smoke and earth helped ground him in the moment.

Jehan finally smiled, the skin around his eyes crinkling. “About time we had someone around here who enjoys the finer things,” he said. “It’s like no one else knows we’re all doomed.”

Grantaire grinned back. He hadn’t wanted to like anyone here, but Jehan was a drinker and a melancholy little shit to boot. A man after Grantaire’s own heart, truly. “Why are you here then? If we’re all doomed, that is.”

Jehan took the flask back and looped his arm through Grantaire’s. “For the inspiration, dear Grantaire. Poets must seek truth and beauty wherever we find it, and there is little to be had in Etienne’s New Order. When I met Courfeyrac, I knew I had to join. The Friends might just be the only true thing left in this miserable country.”

Courfeyrac. According to Javert, he was the Friends’ main recruiter and fundraiser.  

“It’s about to start,” Jehan continued, steering Grantaire toward the table. “You’ll want to be sitting. Enj has a flair for the dramatic. He can be overwhelming if you’re seeing him for the first time.”

“What-” Grantaire started to ask what Jehan meant, but that’s when Enjolras materialized at the head of the table.

He was even better looking in person. Colors unfurled from him like so many banners: brilliant red, the stain of berries against soft lips in the summer; burnt orange, the sun reflected off clouds at sunset; shining gold, a glimpse of an ancient shrine by torchlight.

And then he started to talk. “Friends. My friends,” he said. His voice was absolutely clear. Grantaire could see all the way to the bottom of it. “Welcome. Before we get down to business, I’d like to acknowledge that we are all here tonight for the same reason: we are beasts. In Etienne’s eyes, in the eyes of the New Order, we – the poor, the unwashed, the minority, the dissenter, the other – we are beasts. We are here to keep and kill, to use until we are used up. To be enslaved and slayed. Because that is the ultimate fate of beasts, is it not? In our oldest stories, heroes slay beasts.”

Enjolras’ muscles were so full of potential energy that it seemed he was moving even though he was standing still. It was a wonder his clothes weren’t smoldering.

“And social order as we know it depends on the slaying of beasts. But it does not have to. Though we are all different, everyone in this room recognizes that we are implicated in each other’s oppressions. We are props in each other’s dramas. If we struggle together, we can end this government’s violent subordination of the people.”

“Truth,” Jehan murmured, almost too low for Grantaire to hear. Everyone in the room was nodding their head or whispering their agreement. No wonder the government was so worried about the Friends. Enjolras could sell a blind man glasses. Even Grantaire was almost convinced. 

“We need to remind our fellow citizens that we are not things to be conquered and destroyed. With that in mind, let’s start planning the logistics of our next action. Combeferre, you can take it from here.” Enjolras finished with the same intensity he’d started with and went to lean against the back wall.

Grantaire poked Jehan in the ribs. He’d need another hit from the flask if he was going to make it through this. Eponine caught his eye from where she stood next to Marius and winked.

When the meeting ended, Eponine, Jehan, and Marius took Grantaire up to the front to meet the three leaders. Courfeyrac, Combeferre, and Enjolras were huddled together, talking.

Marius spoke first. “Hey, Courf? Ferre, Enj. I want you to meet Grantaire. He’s Eponine’s friend. He wants to help us.”

All three leaders turned to Grantaire at once. He fought the urge to step back under their scrutiny.

“Grantaire, huh? Glad you could make it,” Courfeyrac said, offering his hand and a warm smile. “We can always use another Friend. Just don’t let Jehan corrupt you. That flask of his is deadly.” That earned him a friendly smack across the arm from Jehan.

“You go to the university?” Combeferre asked next. He had a quiet, self-possessed air, and his eyes were sharp under his glasses. “I haven’t seen you around.”

“Yeah, technically I’m a student,” Grantaire replied.

“Technically?” asked Enjolras, his eyes just as focused as they’d been during the meeting. “What does that mean?”

Grantaire jerked a tiny bit, his equilibrium thrown off. “I’m a student, but I’m not on campus much. That’s what I mean.”

“So what do you study?” Enjolras asked, pushing.

“I’m undecided.”

Enjolras’ eyes widened slightly. He’d probably never been undecided about anything in his life, an idea which was confirmed when Courfeyrac laughed at the expression on his face. After throwing a baleful look toward Courfeyrac, Enjolras changed the subject, asking, “What did you think of the meeting?”

“You’re a powerful speaker. You’ve actually convinced some of these people that you can win. That’s amazing,” Grantaire said, sincerely impressed.

The compliment did not go down as intended. “What do you mean, ‘actually convinced some of these people?’” 

“Well, you know. I’m here because it’s the right thing to do, but there’s no way we’re actually going to change anything."

Enjolras looked so offended that in any other set of circumstances, Grantaire would have laughed. “How can you say that? We can transform this country, if we care enough to fight. How do you get up in the morning if you don’t think things will ever change?”

“The same way everyone else gets up: by rolling off the fucking futon.” Okay, now Grantaire was pissed. If you were as beautiful and talented as Enjolras was, there had to be something seriously wrong with you. Apparently, the universe had decided to even the balance by making him a serious tool. “You don’t actually believe all that shit you say, do you?”

“Of course I do! I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it,” Enjolras said, raising his voice a little.

“Even that bullshit about heroes slaying beasts? We don’t live in a Greek tragedy. This is the real world. It’s hard and it’s painful and we muddle through until we die. The only thing we can do is try to live with ourselves until it’s over. Or whatever. It's not like I know anything about you.”

Enjolras had moved during Grantaire’s rant, and he was close enough now that Grantaire wouldn’t even need to bend his arm to touch him. “My name is Enjolras,” he said, low and fierce. “And don’t think I can’t smell the alcohol on you. If I’d wanted the opinion of an apathetic drunk, I would have asked for it.”

Grantaire clenched his fists, furious. “You did ask for it,” he hissed. He turned on his heel, ready to storm out.

After he turned though, he stopped short. Every single person in the room was staring at him and Enjolras, completely silent. Grantaire glanced at their faces, then stalked toward the door, embarrassment mixing with his fury. He heard Jehan call out,  “See you on Thursday!” as he rushed through the door.

Eponine caught up with him outside. “Well," she said. "That just happened."

Grantaire snorted and kept walking.

“I guess you won’t be coming back then?” She said it like a question, but Grantaire knew she meant it as fact.   

“Oh, no,” he said. “I am definitely coming back.” If Enjolras kept acting like that, betrayal wouldn’t be so much of a chore.


	3. Friends and not-Friends

Over the next few months, Grantaire walked a fine a line. He had to become one of the Friends in practice, but not in spirit; if he slipped, if he allowed himself to care for these people, he would fail for sure.

Unfortunately, the Friends didn’t make it easy. For the first time in his life, Grantaire found himself struggling for ambivalence.

Take Jehan. The man was a Romantic in the true, capital R sense of the word; he felt everything, the good and the gloom, so deeply that Grantaire felt like a coward whenever Jehan walked into the room. He had a wicked sharp tongue too, and when he felt like it, he could absolutely tear someone apart. Not like Enjolras, who used sheer force of will to sledgehammer his opponents into submission, but like a surgeon cutting out a heart with a scalpel.

His way with words leant itself well to creation as well as destruction. “Grantaire,” Jehan would say, usually when they were throwing flyers around campus or getting smashed. He would always start with Grantaire’s name, the syllables dropping from his mouth like pebbles into a still pond. Only then would he begin his poetic rambles.  

“We’re close strangers, you understand. Well begun, half done. We learn lessons, but the lessons wear, thread barren. Do nothing and the dog barks and the chandelier breaks, but take the bull by the sinking ship and the water seeks its own level."

Grantaire, irredeemable jackass that he was, had replied, “What the fuck does that mean?”

But Jehan had only grinned and said, “What I mean is, our job is to throw stones at glass houses. And when nothing happens, we throw them again.” 

Jehan wasn’t the only tolerable one in the bunch either.

There was Bahorel, the happy warrior, to whom subtlety was a foreign concept. If anyone wanted to take their little revolution out of the shadows more than Enjolras, it was him. He was spoiling for a real fight, and he didn’t care if it was fair.

That’s how Grantaire first met him, actually. Eponine and Grantaire had been walking back to Eponine’s apartment from the Musain one night when they’d spotted a couple of New Order loyalists. The loyalists were easy to identify; even if they hadn’t been dressed in dark blue, the black handprint patches sewn onto their coats were a dead giveaway.

Grantaire would have been content to ignore them – he was no fighter - but at that moment, a broad hand fell on his shoulder. Startled, Grantaire had looked back, expecting to see an officer. Instead he’d found a sturdy man of average height, his straight brown hair falling rakishly across his forehead. The man was familiar too, thank God. Grantaire had seen him at a few Friends events, but hadn’t met him yet.

“Bahorel,” hissed Eponine. She’d looked pissed, and understandably so. Grantaire’s chest had hurt from how hard his heart was thumping. “You scared the shit out of me.”

Bahorel grinned and held a finger to his lips. “Shh, quiet, Ep,” he’d whispered. Then he’d held his hand out to Grantaire. “You’re new, right? I’ve seen you around. I’m Bahorel.”

“Grantaire,” he’d whispered back, taking Bahorel’s hand.

“So you’re the one who’s been plucking Enj’s chicken. Nice to finally meet you.”

Grantaire had made a face. Plucking Enjolras’ chicken? What the hell?

Bahorel’s smile widened. “Watch this,” he’d said, releasing Grantaire’s hand and moving up the street swiftly. With admirable economy of motion, Bahorel snuck up behind the two loyalists and banged their heads together. As in, he literally took a loyalist head in each hand and banged them together with enough force to send both of them careening to the pavement.

His mischief managed, Bahorel tore back up the street, laughing joyfully. “You’d better go,” he’d shouted as he blew past them, “unless you want to end up like them.”

After he’d recovered from his shock, Grantaire had laughed too, all the way to Eponine’s.

Then there were Joly and Bossuet, the bromance of the century. Grantaire had thought Marius and Courfeyrac were tight until he’d met those two.

Grantaire had first encountered them in the bathroom of the Musain; Jehan had been plying him with beer all night, and he needed to piss. When he’d walked in, Bossuet had been perched on the white tile counter, his legs swinging free, and Joly had been standing between Bossuet’s legs, fretting over a nasty cut just above Bossuet’s right eyebrow.

“Hey, you’re Grantaire, right?” Bossuet asked over Joly’s shoulder. His skin was darker than Eponine’s, a rarity in the university crowd.  

“Yeah, and you?”

“I’m Bossuet, this is Joly.”

Joly had unwrapped a band aid and was attempting to trap Bossuet’s bald head long enough to stick it on.

Bossuet rolled his eyes. “Don’t mind us. Go about your business.”

Grantaire ignored him, stepping closer. “What happened to your face?”

“I walked into a door,” Bossuet said. Grantaire tilted his chin down and raised an eyebrow. “No, seriously. I’m always walking into doors. Or into mirrors. Or under ladders. I have a real talent.”

“He’s not wrong,” Joly had muttered darkly. “You’ll have a shiner tomorrow, make no mistake. And this is the third time – OH MY GOD!” Joly shoved Bossuet’s head down and leaned into Bossuet’s body, stretching to get his face closer to the mirror.

“It got in my mouth! I swear to God, some of it got into my mouth!” Joly exclaimed. He’d stuck out his tongue as far as it would go, turning it to and fro to examine it in the mirror.

Bossuet leaned back, shaking his head in fond exasperation. “What are you talking about?”

“Blood! Your blood in my mouth. Don’t laugh, Boss. This isn’t a joke.”

Grantaire had taken that as his cue to finish his business and leave.

Jehan had been waiting for him when he’d gotten back to the Friends’ usual room. “That took a long time. You have a bottle of something stashed behind the toilet?” he’d asked as he twirled his hair up into a ponytail.

“No. I met Joly and Bossuet though. Are they...?” Grantaire trailed off, mashing his fingers together a few times to get the point across.

“Oh. Uh, no one knows, actually,” Jehan replied with a shrug. “They’ve never said anything. They’ve never so much as held hands where we could see. Doesn’t really matter though, does it?”

“No, I guess it doesn’t.”

“That doesn’t mean you’re crazy, dear Grantaire,” Jehan had said with a smirk, twining his arm around Grantaire’s waist and pulling him closer. “Personally, I call them Jossuet.”

There were the others too: Marius and Courfeyrac, Combeferre and Eponine, and the scores of others who ebbed and flowed around the Musain. They were all vibrant and full of hope, everything that Grantaire wasn’t. If it weren’t for Javert’s threats, Grantaire could have been real friends with these people, misguided idealism and all.

Then, of course, there was Enjolras.

 Grantaire had never met anyone like him. He was this perfect being - charismatic, thoughtful, passionate, clever – but the second he caught a glimpse of Grantaire, all that pleasantness burned away like fog in the sun.

Enjolras disliked everything about Grantaire, and he never hesitated to express his displeasure. Grantaire drank too much. Grantaire was obnoxious. Grantaire never combed his hair. Grantaire monopolized Jehan and Eponine. And worst of all, the cardinal sin, Grantaire didn’t believe the Friends would succeed. That one was unforgiveable, apparently.

When he sought guidance from the rest of the Friends, they seemed even more nonplussed than he was. Combeferre told him that Enjolras had never acted this way before; he’d had disagreements with others in the group, sure, but he’d never kept up this level of hostility for months on end. He’d always tried to smooth over discord before it could hurt the group. No one knew how Grantaire had managed to get so far under his skin so quickly.

Of more immediate concern, Grantaire’s ongoing spat with Enjolras was having real consequences on the information gathering front. Grantaire was allowed to participate in grunt work missions – flyering and action logistics, for instance – but he couldn’t get near anything of actual importance; Enjolras was keeping him away from higher level dealings. As a result, Grantaire hadn’t learned anything the officers didn’t already know. While that left Grantaire feeling an uncomfortable mix of fear and relief, it did not bode well for his deal with Javert.

That fact was confirmed the next time Grantaire made contact with Javert. Javert demanded weekly check-ins via burner phone, and Grantaire had, quite rightly, been dreading this one for the last six days.

“So you have nothing,” Javert growled over the line. “Three months and you haven’t stumbled across one useful item of information.”

“Hey, you knew I wasn’t some super spy when you put me up to this,” Grantaire answered back, struggling to keep his tone even. “And three months isn’t that long. Don’t these things take years sometimes?”

“We do not have years, and I do not have time for excuses. Bring me something I can use soon, or I’ll haul you in myself. Is that clear?”

Grantaire ran a hand through his hair for the tenth time since the start of the conversation. There was a spectacular migraine gathering strength just behind his eyes. “Yeah. Yeah, I get it.”

“Don’t disappoint me again,” Javert said. The line went dead.

Grantaire tossed the burner phone into the trash. What the hell was he going to do?

 

* * *

 

That weekend, Grantaire met up with the crew at a bar near the university. They’d abandoned the Musain for the evening in favor of an establishment with a more comprehensive menu.

The bar that’d been chosen – probably by Courfeyrac, he was the one who organized these things – was relatively clean and definitely crowded. College kids were everywhere. They burst from the heavy, highly polished wood booths and stood three deep at the bar.

The place was nowhere near Grantaire’s scene, but he understood the concealing properties of drunken chaos better than most. They would be able to talk here, provided they could make themselves heard over the music. He spotted Eponine near the bar and wound his way over.

“Shots up!” Eponine yelled when she saw him, thrusting a tumbler full of alcohol in his direction. “The first one’s on me, stud. It’s a double.” She clinked her glass against his and tossed back the shot. “Here’s to not going home alone tonight.”

“Hello to you too,” he half-shouted. “Where is everyone?”

“I’ll show you!” Eponine grabbed his hand and led him through the crowd. The Friends had commandeered three booths near the back of the bar. Grantaire slid into the middle booth next to Jehan, and Eponine sat down across from him. Also in the booth were Courfeyrac, Marius, and, on the other side of Jehan, Enjolras.

“Hey,” he said, raising one hand to the table in greeting. “Could this place be any louder?”

Jehan put his arm around Grantaire’s shoulders and kissed him on the cheek. “Hey, there,” he said, his long hair tickling Grantaire’s neck. “And yes, it could be louder, and also much worse. You should thank the stars that birthed you it isn’t karaoke night.”

“Hey, I happen to like karaoke,” Courfeyrac protested from across the table. “I wanted to do this on karaoke night, but Enjolras wouldn’t let me.”

Enjolras smiled and rolled his eyes. “No way. I don’t want a repeat of last time, now do I?” Marius snorted, nearly spraying beer from his nose.

Grantaire shrugged Jehan’s arm from his shoulders and tossed back the drink Eponine had given him. Enjolras was more relaxed than he’d ever seen him. Maybe this was his chance to dig himself out the colossal hole he’d fallen into. “Definitely not,” he said, smiling as warmly as possible in Enjolras’ direction. “I’ve heard you sing Courf. No offense, but I’m with Enjolras on this one.”

There was silence at the table for a split second.

“Am I hallucinating wildly, or did Enjolras and Grantaire just agree on something?” Courfeyrac finally asked.

“Maybe we’re all having simultaneous psychotic breaks,” Eponine added.

“Or strokes,” said Marius.

Grantaire snuck a peak at Enjolras. He was full-on staring at Grantaire, his eyebrows nearly disappearing into his gold curls.   

“We’ve agreed on things before. No need to make it sound like the apocalypse,” Grantaire choked out.

Enjolras narrowed his eyes. “No, we haven’t,” he said. “You fight me on everything.

“Well, maybe I’m turning over a new leaf,” Grantaire bit back.

Enjolras considered that for a moment, then nodded slowly.

With their truce in place, the next few hours went as smooth as butter on toast. Grantaire drank and laughed and joked with the best of them, without one fight.

Eponine and Marius eventually disappeared together, prompting a round of intense speculation from Courfeyrac and Grantaire. Jehan had cut in, saying, “Leave them be, you two.”

“We’re just jealous,” said Grantaire.

“Maybe you are, but not Courf. He could pull anyone in here with a bag over his head,” Jehan said. “You should see it, Grantaire. I’ve written odes to his prowess.”

“Just imagine what I could do if I had Enjolras’ face,” Courfeyrac said. “It’s a damn shame you never use it, Enj. You could do some serious damage.”

“I don’t want to do damage,” Enjolras said with a frown. He’d been drinking steadily since the truce had been declared, and his face was flush and glowing with drink. Grantaire was finding it harder and harder to look away, especially since Enjolras had moved into the space across from him, the one Eponine had vacated.

“We all want to do a little damage sometimes,” replied Jehan, flicking his eyes toward Grantaire.   

Grantaire laughed and flicked a straw wrapper across the table. “Ah, come on, Enj. You are like, anti-fun.”

“I’m not anti-fun!” Enjolras insisted, eyes blazing. “I just don’t like distractions. Someone has to keep us on track. We are the leaders of a revolution, in case you’ve forgotten.”

“How could I forget, with you reminding me every two seconds? You see, this is why Jehan is my favorite. He’s very much pro-fun,” said Grantaire, throwing his arm around Jehan and tangling a hand in his hair. Jehan turned his head slightly, giving Grantaire a strange look through slanted eyes. Courfeyrac watched everything, expressionless.

Confusion flashed across Enjolras’ face before transforming into a mighty scowl. He glanced between Grantaire and Jehan, his nose scrunched up. “So you two have fun…together?”

“Well, yeah,” Grantaire said. “We’re friends, aren’t we?”

Ah, shit. There was that word. Friends. The one thing he wasn’t supposed to have.

“Oh, yeah,” said Jehan. He turned his head and smiled a slow, slow smile. “We are very good friends. The best of friends.”

Enjolras’ face tightened.

Jehan kept his eyes on Grantaire. “Hey, you wanna go outside? I’m getting pretty hot in here.”

“Uh, sure. One sec though, I need to pee first.”

Grantaire slid out of the booth and tugged down his shirt. It was the one with the gray and black stripes, the same one he’d been wearing when he’d tried to save that kid. The same one he’d been wearing when he was caught up in Etienne’s grand New Order.

He shook his head as he walked toward the bathroom, trying to clear it. He would go outside with Jehan, and then he would go home before he became any more entangled with these people than he already was.

Before he actually started to like Enjolras.

Their fearless leader had actually been fun tonight, in spite of everything Grantaire had said to him. How could one person be so devoted? How could he believe so fiercely? It didn’t make sense.

Lost in thought, Grantaire's feet steered him to the bathroom without any concious input from his brain. That made it especially surprising when a hand closed around his wrist.

“Enjolras?”

“I’m not anti-fun,” Enjolras said, looking wild. His curls were out of place, sticking up in odd directions, and the buttons of his jacket were in the wrong button holes. He’d put it on too fast, most likely. “I’m not.”

“What?” Grantaire asked, shocked.

“Say you believe me. Say it.” Enjolras was squeezing his wrist hard enough to hurt now.

Grantaire stared at Enjolras and Enjolras stared back. What was happening?

“I believe you,” he said.

Enjolras tapped one fine-boned finger against Grantaire’s wrist a few times, his lips pursed. Then he let go. “Are you going outside? After the bathroom, I mean.”

“Uh, yeah.”

“Fine. Fine,” Enjolras said. He took a deep, shuddering breath and squared his shoulders. “You should come to my apartment. Tomorrow.”

Grantaire wondered if his brain was short circuiting. “What?”

“Courfeyrac and I are going to meet someone. The daughter of a particularly generous ex-pat funder. We’re meeting at my place beforehand. I want you to come.”

“Why?”

“I know I’ve kept you out of the loop. But you have a…you have a _perspective_ , Grantaire.” Enjolras slumped after he finished, his shoulders losing their square.

“Ok,” Grantaire said, “I’ll be there. I don’t know your address though.”

“No problem.” Enjolras took a pen out of his pocket and grabbed Grantaire’s arm again, pulling it straight. He wrote his address on the pale, fleshy part of Grantaire’s left forearm. “Just…don’t stay out too late.”

“Ok.”

“See you tomorrow,” Enjolras said. He stuffed the pen back in his pocket and walked away.

It didn’t occur to Grantaire until he was washing his hands that Enjolras had just handed him the knife he’d eventually use to stab him in the back.    


	4. Dead Birds

Grantaire settled his tab and slipped out of the bar. He did not stop, he did not say goodbye, and he certainly did not go back to the booth.

A perspective? Enjolras thought he had a perspective? The only perspective Grantaire had was that this whole endeavor was a waste of time.

Maybe Enjolras had finally decided to make a serious go of changing Grantaire’s mind. Of saving him from his own pessimism. Maybe that’s what this was all about. Tonight Grantaire had given him an inch and now, in characteristic Enjolras fashion, the arrogant ass wanted the whole goddamned mile.

Grantaire took a deep breath and sat heavily on the curb in front of the bar. Another cause. That’s all he was. Enjolras saw him as another battleground in the war against Etienne, which, really, was a fight against human nature itself. In the broadest of strokes, Grantaire was a proxy for the larger war Enjolras was waging against the inertia of humanity.

It was yet another war Enjolras was going to lose.  

And Grantaire should know. He was the one stacking the fucking deck.

“Care for a smoke?” Jehan asked as he sat on the curb next to Grantaire. He was holding a lit cigarette in one hand and offering the box to Grantaire with the other.

“I didn’t know you smoked,” said Grantaire. He pulled a cigarette from the box and a lighter from his own back pocket. Of course Grantaire smoked but he’d never see Jehan do it before.

“I usually don’t,” said Jehan. “It’s a bad habit. Only do it when I’m anxious and drunk. My willpower’s at an all time low tonight, my friend.”

“Yeah, that’s going around.” Grantaire took a drag from the cigarette and looked up at the sky.

The night was clear, but the city’s lights drowned out all but the brightest stars. Bits of pieces of old coursework began to surface as he allowed his mind to wander. Light pollution was a real problem. Sometimes birds got confused when they tried to migrate and aimed themselves at the lights of the city. Every year, thousands of birds dashed their brains against the city’s buildings. Sea turtles got confused too; they had evolved to use the relative brightness of the beach at night to find their way ashore, but settlement lights had made it nearly impossible for the turtles to distinguish sea from sand from sky.

Birds and sea turtles and the night sky: all collateral damage, cast aside by the juggernaut of human progress.

Really, Jehan shouldn’t feel bad for smoking. If birds were the collateral damage of the people in the city, then the people in the city were the collateral damage of Etienne. They all deserved to smoke if they felt like it.

“Those must be some deep thoughts you’re thinking. Deep, highly unpleasant thoughts,” Jehan said eventually. 

A car drove by, a flashy one with a custom paint job and the kind of rims that spin. Grantaire wanted to put his cigarette out on the forehead of whoever was driving that car. He despised this town, sometimes.

Grantaire looked at Jehan and looked away again. He was definitely in a mood after Enjolras, there was no denying that. He brought the cigarette to his mouth and nodded.

Jehan nodded along with him.

“Thought so. I’m clairvoyant. I can sense the depth of other people’s thoughts,” Jehan said. The corners of his mouth turned in self-deprecation. “It’s a cheap clairvoyance though. I can only do it when I’m drunk.”

“That seems pretty pointless. Like being invisible, but only when no one’s watching,” Grantaire said. “And who would want to know depth but not content?”

Jehan shrugged. The motion pulled at his shirt, stretching it tight across his shoulders. The shirt was a deep green, so dark it was almost black. “I don’t know. It does encourage the asking of questions.” He nudged Grantaire’s shoulder. “What are you thinking about?”

Grantaire didn’t answer immediately. There were a lot of people gathered outside the bar now, flirting and smoking and getting air. A massive bouncer was perched on a comically tiny stool just outside the door, checking IDs and shouting whenever a patron got too rowdy.

“Sea turtles. Dead birds. Light,” he said. The words sounded stupid and silly in the open air, but he didn’t know what else to say. He didn’t want to lie.

Jehan didn’t seem to mind. He laughed softly and sadly, and pressed the heel of one hand into his eye. He said, “I was writing the other day and I realized something. There is no word for standing on an empty street, looking at the back of the one you love. That’s a feeling, a real feeling, and there’s no word for it.”         

“I never thought about,” Grantaire said. He stubbed his cigarette out on the curb.

“Really? I think about it all the time,” said Jehan. “I keep thinking that maybe I shouldn’t want this so much. That I shouldn’t _want_ so much, period.”

“Shouldn’t want what?”

“Grantaire,” said Jehan in that way he had. He bit his bottom lip and brought his hand to Grantaire’s face. The burgundy polish on his fingernails was fresh and unchipped. “I want you.”

For the second time in the last half hour, Grantaire’s mind went completely blank. He blinked at Jehan, struggling to comprehend. “I don’t understand,” he finally managed.

Consternation wrinkled the bridge of Jehan’s nose. “No, you wouldn’t. There’s plenty about you to like, you know.”

Grantaire grabbed Jehan’s wrist, stilling the other man’s hand on his face. “You really are fearless, aren’t you?” he asked, the question colored by no small amount of awe. How many people did Grantaire know who said what they felt? Who took risks with anything other than their physical well being?

“I’m a poet, remember? Truth and beauty are my stock and trade, and, my dear Grantaire, in you I see both,” Jehan said.

Grantaire pressed his lips together. Jehan had said he was a cheap clairvoyant. That must be true, because he was dead wrong. “There’s no truth in me. Even less beauty, if that’s possible.”

Jehan groaned and pinched Grantaire’s cheek lightly. “Seriously? And people say I’m dramatic.” He leaned closer. “When someone needs to hear the truth, you tell it. You call people on their shit, even Enjolras. The Friends needed that.”

“The only real lies you tell are the ones you tell yourself,” Jehan murmured, even closer now. He set the butt of his cigarette down carefully. Grantaire knew he would pick it up and dispose of it before he left. That was the kind of person Jehan was. “I think you’re beautiful.”

Jehan took Grantaire’s face in his hands and kissed him softly.

Grantaire pulled back. He felt like a fool. How had he not seen this coming? In hindsight, the signs seemed outlined in neon. At the same time he felt flattered. Jehan was beautiful. Not in the same way as Enjolras, to be sure, but beautiful all the same. He deserved better. “Jehan, I’m sorry.”

Jehan sighed, hurt and wry disappointment forking across his face like lightning. “Ah, ok,” he said. “I understand.”

“It’s not you. It’s really not. I just…” Grantaire paused, trying to think of something to say. The offer was tempting beyond belief, but he had to protect himself. He wanted to protect Jehan too, though that reason rang hollow in the face of what was to come.

“You don’t have to explain yourself,” said Jehan as he shifted back to his original position. He shook another cigarette from his pack. “It’s fine if there’s someone else. You can’t make yourself want someone you don’t want. It’s no one’s fault.”

That was true. You couldn’t control how you felt about someone else. You also couldn’t control how someone felt about you. Enjolras was living proof of that.

“There isn’t anyone else,” said Grantaire.

Shaking his head in disbelief, Jehan offered Grantaire another cigarette.

“I’m serious,” said Grantaire. 

“So you’re not thinking about Enjolras right now?”

Grantaire froze with the cigarette clenched between his teeth and his hand cupped around the flame of his lighter. So what if he’d been thinking about Enjolras? It didn’t mean anything. You were supposed to think about the person you were spying on.

 “I’ll admit, he has a gravity,” Jehan continued. “I was hoping to catch you before you got too caught up in it.” He spread his hands in front of him, the cigarette stuck between two fingers. “See? I’m not so brave. If I were, I would have told you this a lot sooner.”

Grantaire closed his eyes.

“Don’t feel bad about this, please. We were friends before, and we’re friends now,” said Jehan. “And if you change your mind, well…neither of us is going anywhere.”

“Yeah.”

Jehan stood up and pulled Grantaire up with him. With reassuring smile, he pulled Grantaire’s head down and kissed his forehead. “I’ll walk you home,” he said.

Grantaire nodded. True to form, Jehan picked up his cigarette butt and Grantaire’s too.

While he was waiting for Jehan, Grantaire’s eyes slid back to the entrance of the bar. Enjolras was standing in the doorway. His red jacket was draped across his arm.

When he saw Grantaire looking, he turned and went back inside.

Jehan appeared again, drawing his attention away from the door. “Let’s go,” he said.

 

* * *

 

Enjolras’ apartment was tact incarnate. It was large, but not overwhelming. It was in a good neighborhood, but not the best. It was richly appointed, but in the understated style of the old money families, the ones who shunned overt displays of wealth as unbecomingly gauche.

Grantaire felt like a barbarian before he even stepped through the door.

“Who are your parents again?” Grantaire asked as Enjolras herded him into the living room. Courfeyrac was already there, lounging on a plush, chocolate brown couch. Marius was there too, typing something into his phone. “Your apartment could fit mine three times over.” 

Enjolras looked annoyed at the question. Money must be a sore spot with him; his wealth had to lower his credibility with the huddled masses. “I have to keep up appearances,” he said, defensive.

Eager to keep the conversation from devolving into a fight, Grantaire raised both his hands, palms forward. “No judgment,” he said, aiming for levity. “We’re all students. We all know the score.”

“Yet you live in a shoebox, apparently,” Enjolras said, not quite as defensive this time.

“Well, my parents don’t approve of my lifestyle.” Grantaire wandered over to the couch and slumped next to Courfeyrac. “Said they won’t fund excess.”

“Then the joke’s on them,” said Courfeyrac. “They clearly underestimated your talent for finding excess.”

“Testify,” Grantaire agreed, bumping fists with Courf.

“Ok, enough,” broke in Enjolras. He sat in the armchair closest to Grantaire. “If you want to be involved, you need to know what’s going on. We’re meeting with Cosette Valjean. She and her father were forced to flee the country when Etienne first took power.”

“Why did they flee?” asked Grantaire.

“Her father was a part of the movement that opposed the New Order. He made some powerful enemies. When Etienne took power, it was either flee or die,” Enjolras said. “They still have quite a bit of money, and they’ve been supporting us financially for years now.”

“Then what’s this meeting about?” asked Grantaire. Javert had wanted him to find out more about the Friend’s funders. The more he knew about the Friend’s finances, the more likely he would find out what they were spending their money on.

“Cosette’s managed to get into the country as an international student. She wants to join the fight. She’s coming here today to meet us,” Enjolras answered.

After a few minutes in which Enjolras impressed upon Grantaire the importance of not acting like an asshole – although not in so many words, since they were trying to get along now – the landline rang.

Enjolras scooped up the phone before it could ring twice. “Hello? Yes, thank you, Claude. Send her up.” He put the phone down. “She’s here.”

One knock on the door later and Enjolras was ushering Cosette into the room.

Grantaire’s first thought was that she was almost as pretty as Enjolras. Sweet innocence oozed from her dewy skin and her blue eyes, and shone from her professionally highlighted hair. She didn’t look capable of swatting a fly, let alone joining a group of revolutionaries, but Grantaire had learned long ago that looks had little to do with spirit.

“This is Marius, Courfeyrac, and Grantaire,” Enjolras said by way of introduction. Grantaire smirked at the way Marius suddenly acquired perfect posture. Eponine was not going to like this.  

“Hi,” Cosette said, waving awkwardly. “I hope you’ll forgive my strangeness. I’m not very good at meeting new people.”

“Not at all,” Courfeyrac said. “Welcome back to the motherland.” He stood and shook Cosette’s hand, smiling the same warm smile he’d given Grantaire when they’d first met. Unlike Cosette, Courfeyrac was excellent at meeting new people. Marius rushed to shake hands as well.

Grantaire simply nodded. Not everyone was a people person.

Cosette sat, taking the armchair opposite of Enjolras, who was once again next to Grantaire. “It’s a weird feeling,” she said. “I left when I was seven, so I don’t remember much.

“Then why did you come back?” asked Grantaire, genuinely curious. Enjolras thought the question too abrupt, apparently, because he sent a heated glare in Grantaire’s direction. Grantaire rolled his eyes. “Relax, fearless leader. Cosette just left her cushy life in a free country to help us. I doubt I’ll scare her off with a few questions.”

Cosette smiled at him gratefully. “Quite right,” she said, “and thanks. Not many people can get past the doe eyes when they first meet me.”

Marius and Enjolras blinked in unison, and Grantaire fought to hold in a laugh.

“I still feel connected to this place, especially with all the stories my father’s told me,” she went on, her voice hardening, “and I’m not afraid of the danger. You know, I haven’t had an easy life. I know people can be ferociously cruel. I also know that cruelty is insidious. It’s infectious. If I – if we – don’t take a stand here, it will spread.”

“Here, here,” agreed Courfeyrac.

Grantaire, however, was a little taken aback by Cosette’s answer, by the passion behind it. Here was another true believer.

He looked at Enjolras out of the corner of his eye. Enjolras wasn’t going to like what he was going to say next. So be it. This was important. “Why, though? Why do you think taking a stand will do anything?”

Cosette thought about it for a moment, tilting her head and turning her eyes to the side. Then she seemed to come to a decision. “It’s easy for us to look at how things are now and think that they’re inevitable. That’s what Etienne wants us to think, anyway. He wants us to believe that the New Order is monolithic, invulnerable, and eternal. But that’s not true. It took a lot of luck for the New Order to come to power, and they make mistakes just like the rest of us. I think that with a lot of planning, a lot of work, and some luck of our own, it wouldn’t be impossible for us to shake things up.”

Grantaire didn’t speak for the rest of the meeting, choosing to mull over what Cosette had said instead. What she said sounded reasonable, but only if you didn’t know how close the officials were to bringing the Friends down. They had the planning, they had the hard work, but they didn’t have the luck.

After Cosette left, Grantaire didn’t feel the need to stay any longer. Enjolras followed him to the door, stopping him before he could walk out.

“I know, I know. I questioned the cause in front of a new recruit. Shame on me,” Grantaire said, twisting uncomfortably. When did Enjolras start standing so close? It made Grantaire hyperaware of his own body, like he’d forgotten what normal people did with their hands.

“That’s not…I think you were right. To ask those questions, I mean,” Enjolras said. “Cosette appreciated your candor, and you needed to hear the answers.”

Right. Enjolras probably thought Cosette could help him lure Grantaire away from his cynicism.

“I wanted to thank you. For coming,” Enjolras said. He was speaking faster than normal and his sentences weren’t as smooth as usual, but the words were completely in earnest. “I know we got off to a rough start. But you’ve become a valuable member of the organization. I’d like us to be friends.”

Dear Lord, Enjolras wanted to be friends. Grantaire took a split second to reflect on his life.

At least Javert would be happy.

“You don’t have to. I won’t force you,” Enjolras said, pulling Grantaire back into the moment. “We should try though. For the good of the group. If you’d rather spend your time with someone else-”

“No. There’s no one else,” Grantaire cut in quickly.

Enjolras stared at him for a second, eyes intense. He looked skeptical, like he didn’t quite believe what Grantaire was telling him. “Ok. Good,” Enjolras said. “Friends.” He held out his hand.

Grantaire took the proffered hand and squeezed gently. Enjolras’ hand was warm and dry, not clammy with sweat like Grantaire’s. “Friends.”


	5. Republicas

Cosette came to the Musain for the first time a few weeks later. Social awkwardness aside, she found her place in the group quickly; unlike Grantaire, Cosette had beauty, charm, and sparkling wit to balance out any character flaws. She also had Marius advocating on her behalf, but that might have been more of a hindrance than a help.

From his spot on the window sill, Grantaire watched as Marius followed Cosette around the room. Yeah. Definitely a hindrance.

“What happened?” asked Eponine. She was sitting next to Grantaire on the ledge, her eyes on Marius and Cosette. “One second he can’t get enough of me. The next he’s hanging off the new girl.”

Jehan’s voice ran through Grantaire’s head: _You can’t make yourself want someone you don’t want_.

Not being suicidal, Grantaire didn’t repeat that to Eponine.“Marius is a baby magpie,” he said instead, passing his beer in solidarity. Enjolras still hated it when he drank, but Grantaire refused to give up his vices just to please the man. That would look suspicious.

Plus, fuck that. Grantaire liked his vices. “He sees something shiny and he follows it.”

“And she is shiny, isn’t she?” Eponine growled. “A shiny, shiny virgin.”

“Slow your roll there, slugger. This isn’t Cosette’s fault. If you really want to take your anger out on someone, throw down with Marius.” Grantaire paused long enough to twist the cap off his next beer. “I’d pay to see that.”

Eponine shifted on the sill, restless. She finally settled with one leg dangling and one tucked underneath her. “I just thought…God, you know, for just a second, I thought he was serious about me.”

Grantaire took Eponine’s hand and gave it a sympathetic squeeze. Eponine wasn’t one for public displays of vulnerability. This thing with Marius was serious business. “You know I’ve got your back, Ep. Completely.”

She squeezed his hand in return, a brief pulse. “I know,” she said, even though she didn’t. Not really. “I appreciate it.”

“Besides,” she continued, suddenly nonchalant, “if Jehan can still tolerate you after you blew him off for no apparent reason, I can definitely handle Marius.”

Barbed guilt wound itself around Grantaire’s chest and tightened painfully. Jehan had kept his word after the night at the bar; he’d kept up his end of their friendship, acting more or less the same as he always had. If he drank a touch more than usual, if he missed a meeting or two here and there, if he was a little sharper with Enjolras than he used to be, then Grantaire wasn’t going to fault him for it.

Eponine was the only person he’d told.

“Well, Jehan isn’t here tonight, is he?” said Grantaire, feeling raw. He let go of Eponine’s hand and slid off the ledge. The rest of the room was set up the same way it’d been set up on the first night, with all the tables pushed together.

Eponine caught his shoulder as he stood. “Taire, please. I’m sorry.” To her credit, she did sound sincere. “I’m a bitch. I have your back too. Even when I think you’re making a huge mistake. Because honestly, Jehan is pretty much perfect for you.”

“And you started out so well,” Grantaire muttered, shaking loose.

“It’s not too late to change your mind, you know. He’d have you in a heartbeat,” she said, ignoring him.

“Right, thanks,” Grantaire said, his tongue heavy. He left Eponine drinking on the window sill and made for the back of the room.

A group of people were gathered there, all of them listening to a man Grantaire had never seen before. The new guy looked a little like Marius, with his wide face and freckles, but his spiked hair was a soft, carroty orange.

Whatever the guy was saying must be pretty damned interesting, because Enjolras was just about falling off his chair. Grantaire snagged the nearest empty seat and plunked it next to Courfeyrac.

“If we want to create a more just society, we have to go to the core of the systems that cause injustice,” the red haired man was saying. “We have to go to the core of patriarchy, the core of racism, the core of capitalism, and the core of dictatorship. We have to be radical; we have to dig to the roots. That’s what I’m interested in.”

Enjolras thumped a fist against his thigh. “Yes! That’s exactly it. I’m so sick of this treating-the-symptoms bullshit.”

“Who’s this?” asked Grantaire under his breath. No wonder Enjolras was spewing enthusiasm across the room. He and this other guy were singing the same impossible song.

“His name’s Feuilly,” said Courfeyrac.

“You recruited him?”

“No, Cosette brought him in. You know, like how Eponine brought you in. He’s not a student, but his connections with the environmental groups are phenomenal. We could really use him.”

“Yeah,” Grantaire said. “Enjolras is practically drooling.”

“Good,” Feuilly said in response to Enjolras. “If you only look at the symptoms you’ll never solve the problem. But, Enjolras, I think we can push harder. We need to think about the problem of justice in the context of the equally compelling problem of sustainability.”

Combeferre pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and leaned forward. “Explain, please.”

Feuilly inclined his head. “We live in this profoundly unjust world, but the way we treat the world is fundamentally unsustainable. Humanity’s drawdown of the ecological capital of the planet is going forward at a rate that we cannot continue indefinitely. We have to acknowledge that we can’t just focus on hierarchies within humanity, but we also have to deal with the way the human species dominates the planet itself.”

“Whatever we don’t conquer is our potential destroyer,” Enjolras agreed, sounding unbearably smug. Grantaire chugged his beer.

“If we can’t find a way to live based on a real commitment to the principles of equality and the inherent dignity of all living things, we’re done for. Our domination of each other is very much intertwined with our domination of the earth. We have to end all of it,” Feuilly finished, his intensity almost matching Enjolras’. He reached up and tugged at the dark blue bandana tied around his neck, his hand moving with the unthinking smoothness of ritual.

Grantaire finally snapped. This was ridiculous. “Yeah, that sounds like an attainable goal,” he said dryly.

Enjolras’ head whipped around as he turned to glare at Grantaire. Oh, that figured. Enjolras hadn’t even noticed Grantaire sit down. He was too interested in Feuilly.

“That would be Grantaire, our resident cynic,” Enjolras said, his voice acid. “And our resident drunk. I think those two things might be related.”

“Ah, don’t say it like that,” Grantaire taunted with a smirk. “You know you love me.”

For a second, Enjolras actually looked taken aback. The second was fleeting. “Oh, yeah,” he shot back, voice dripping with sarcasm. “I can’t get enough of you.”

Grantaire’s smirk slipped. He and Enjolras had been spending a lot of time together in the last few weeks, but the disapproval still stung. “Nor I, you, _my friend_.”

Feuilly looked between the two of them, biting his tongue.

Seeing his confusion, Courfeyrac smiled reassuringly. “Don’t worry,” he said. “This is part of their process. They’re practically inseparable, these days.”

Feuilly sat back with a hesitant nod. “Well, Grantaire, the answer to your question is _yes_. My goals go beyond what happens in this room. It’s not what I want, but some things are more important than bringing down the New Order.”

“Yeah,” muttered Grantaire. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Eponine walking towards the stairs. “I know.”

 

* * *

 

Relative peace reigned for the next few weeks, but the peace seemed a harbinger of bad things to come. Everything felt too still. Stagnant. The days got colder. Darkness came sooner.

All of the Friends could feel the strange tension that permeated the city. Although everyone was affected – Jehan had cut his hair to the shoulder and dyed it black to match what he termed _this foul tempered malaise_ – it was Bahorel who was particularly unsettled.

“Come on, people,” he said, pacing the grass like a caged animal. “We have to _do something_. Anything. I’m going crazy.”

Grantaire cracked an eye open. After his afternoon class ended – Eponine had bullied him into going – he’d met up with some of the Friends on the patch of grass between the university observatory and Union Bay. He was lying in the grass now, his arms crossed behind his head and his ankles crossed in front him. Jehan was lying on his stomach next to him, trying to whistle through a blade of grass. Enjolras and Combeferre were sitting together a few feet away, outlining essays for some philosophy class they were both taking.

Bahorel, of course, was going crazy.

“I’ve obviously started talking to myself, since _no one is answering me_.” Bahorel dove between Grantaire and Jehan, landing more on top of them than between them. Grantaire grunted as an elbow crashed into his unprotected stomach.

“Sorry ‘bout that, Taire. Seriously though: I know those two have sticks up their asses,” Bahorel said as he jerked his thumb at Combeferre and Enjolras, which earned him a _hey, watch it_ from Enjolras and an eye roll from Combeferre, “but you two are supposed to be the fun ones!”

Grantaire dug himself out from under Bahorel and sat up. “Ugh. I knew that pro-fun stuff would come back to haunt me,” he said darkly, rubbing at his ribs. “What did you have in mind?”

Bahorel flopped onto his back and pushed his dark hair out of his eyes. “It’s Thursday,” he said. “There’ll be parties everywhere. If I don’t find someone to fight, I at least want to find someone to fuck.”

Jehan made a disgusted noise and slapped Bahorel’s arm. “Have a little respect, heathen. Those are people you’re talking about.”

“I’m not surprised. He’s missed the last three anti-oppression trainings,” said Combeferre, finally looking up from his book.

“Oh, _come on_!” Bahorel yelled, jumping to his feet. “Grantaire. My man. Do you really want to spend the rest of your day with these squares talking about boring shit and doing fucking _homework_?”

Grantaire tilted his head and shrugged. The man made a good point.

Sensing blood in the water, Bahorel pressed his advantage. “Yes. Please. If you come, Jehan will come.”

Grantaire put on an exaggerated grimace and shrugged again. The truth was, he was already sold, but he wanted to see what he could get out of this.

“I’ll pay for all your booze,” said Bahorel.

And there it was. Smiling broadly, Grantaire levered himself off the ground. “Well, I’m down. Jehan?”

Jehan threw his hands in the air, but he was smiling. “Fine, fine. But you’re paying for my booze too, B.”

Bahorel lifted both fists toward the sky in triumph. “Yes! The three amigos.”

Enjolras, who’d been following the conversation with narrowed eyes, finally chimed in. “Four,” he pronounced, closing his laptop with a decisive thump.

Bahorel’s hands dropped to his sides. “What?” he asked, confused.

“Four,” Enjolras said again. “As in, there will be four amigos. I’m coming too.”

Grantaire ran his tongue along his teeth and stared at Enjolras. Enjolras, however, refused to meet his eyes.

“Enj, that’s awesome!” Bahorel said, charging over to clap Enjolras on the shoulder. Enjolras rocked to the side with the force of the friendly blow. “Two nights out in the same month? Grantaire’s rubbing off on you.”

“Grantaire is not rubbing off on anyone, Bahorel,” said Enjolras quickly. His face was flush, his blood visible beneath his pale skin. “Bonding activities build group cohesion. I’ve decided to start participating in more group recreational activities. To build group cohesion.”

Grantaire’s eyebrows climbed. He glanced at Jehan to confirm that Enjolras was acting as weird as Grantaire thought he was acting.

Jehan looked back at him, his eyes deep and unfathomable. He smiled, but the smile was as thin as the frayed denim of his jeans.

 

* * *

 

The four of them drank together – all on Bahorel’s dime; his family was almost as wealthy as Enjolras’ - and waited for darkness to fall. When the time was right, they went to the Republicas.

The Republicas were a long row of absolutely massive houses just north of the university campus. Each Republica had a theme: one was done up like a castle, one in the modernist style, one like a log cabin. Grantaire’s personal favorite was the one on the corner that had been built to resemble a shipwreck. That one seemed the most fitting, given the circumstances.

Only the worst of the richest assholes lived in the Republicas, but they always, always threw the best parties.

“Just think, Enj,” Grantaire said as they entered a Republica shaped like a pyramid. The four of them didn’t look too different from the other people who partied in the Republicas, and a quick hundred in the hand of the kid guarding the door – for the hospitality, Bahorel had said – was more than enough to gain them entry. “In a different world, you might have ended up in one of these.”

Immediate horror and disgust creased Enjolras’ face, somehow making the line of his jaw even sharper. Grantaire turned away quickly, searching for the liquor.

Everything became hazier as the night wore on. Someone somewhere had passed Grantaire a joint, and he’d indulged. He caught occasional glimpses of the others as he wandered and smoked: Bahorel kissing a girl by the pool; Jehan clinking cups with some guy by the keg; Enjolras holding court in the kitchen, unable to cease his ministry even at a Republica kegger.

Grantaire ghosted through the crowd, alone and free. For this one night, he could forget about Javert. For this one night, he could forget that it was his job to betray the Friends. His friends.

Because that’s what they were. Jehan and Bahorel and Courfeyrac and Marius and all the rest. Enjolras.

Excepting Eponine, they were the first real human connections he’d ever made. For this one night, he could pretend like that meant something.

For the first time in a long time, he felt good.

“Hey, there,” someone said behind him. Grantaire turned around.

“I’ve been looking for you,” Jehan said.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. You wanna dance?” Jehan motioned toward the dance floor with a flick of his wrist. The music was an unfamiliar techno, but the bass felt like a heartbeat.

“You know what I never understood,” said Grantaire, catching Jehan’s wrist between his hands. “Why so many people want to be DJs. What’s up with that?”

Jehan eyes crinkled as he smiled, humming with amusement. “A mystery of the cosmos, for sure. So, you wanna dance or what?”

Suddenly, Grantaire wanted nothing more than to move. Standing in one place felt like death, felt like dying. “Oh. Yes, I want to dance. More than anything.”

“Perfect.” Jehan tugged him to the dance floor.

The dance floor was insanely crowded, and Grantaire and Jehan were pushed flush against each other from the get go. Feeling hot and sweaty and very close to the ground, Grantaire threw his arms around Jehan and laughed.

“Having fun?” Jehan shouted into his ear. One of his hands was on the small of Grantaire’s back, and the other was pressed right between Grantaire’s shoulder blades.

“Yeah!” Grantaire shouted back. “I have one night!”

“One night for what?”

“For anything!”

Jehan pulled back a tiny bit, his newly black hair making the skin of his face look eerily pale in the strobe lights. Even though the conditions were not ideal for sight, Grantaire was close enough to see the thoughtful turn of Jehan’s mouth.

“Want to do something stupid?” Jehan yelled.

Giddy, Grantaire nodded.

Jehan moved his hand from the dip of Grantaire’s shoulder to Grantaire’s neck, pulled his head down, and kissed him.

Jehan kissed like Grantaire always thought he would kiss: without holding any part of himself back. He kissed like he cared.

And Grantaire kissed back because, why not? Jehan was familiar and comfortable. Jehan wasn’t afraid of himself. He was loyal and good.

Grantaire wanted to reach inside Jehan, and take that courage and that strength, and stitch into his own weak heart.

When the heat and the closeness became too much, Grantaire broke away. He leaned his forehead against Jehan’s for a second, the tilted his head to yell into Jehan’s ear. “I need some water.”

Together, they negotiated their way off the dance floor. Then they separated, with Jehan going in search of a bathroom and Grantaire off to the industrial size kitchen he remembered from earlier.

He opened the enormous, stainless steel fridge and grabbed a bottle of water. When he shut the door, Enjolras was standing right behind it.

Grantaire nearly jumped out of his skin, barely managing to hold onto the bottle. “Fuck, Enj,” said Grantaire, relaxing against the fridge. “What kind of horror movie shit was that?”

“What do you think you’re doing, Grantaire?” Enjolras hissed. He crowded Grantaire into the fridge, probably trying to intimidate him with his physicality. It was one of Enjolras’ favorite debate tactics.

“What are you talking about?” Grantaire hissed back, matching Enjolras’ tone. Was this about the pot? Why would Enjolras care?

“You made out with Jehan. I saw you,” Enjolras said, fists clenched.

Grantaire pushed Enjolras backwards, trying to free himself. He shook his head hard, disbelief clouding his mind even further.

“What?” he choked out, his mind slow and stupid.

“He has feelings for you. And you don’t have feelings for him. So why lead him on, Grantaire? Why give him false hope?” Enjolras said. He sounded furious, and righteous.

For a brief moment, Grantaire wanted to laugh. False hope? Was there any other kind?

“You arrogant fucker,” Grantaire breathed. The peace had officially broken. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I know what you’re doing is selfish and reckless,” Enjolras spit out.

Grantaire shoved his hands into his hair. He hadn’t cut it in months, and it had grown long and shaggy over his ears. Now it was sweaty too, and it felt greasy. “Oh, for fuck’s sake, why do you even care? Jehan and I are both adults. Who we put our mouths on is our business!”

Enjolras opened his mouth; then he closed it again. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed.

“Let me make one thing clear,” Grantaire said, voice shaking. His hands were cold and wet from the condensation on the water bottle. “I know you don’t like how I live my life. I know you want to fix me. But I don’t need to be saved. So if I want to kiss Jehan: you have no say. If I want to drink and smoke and go to parties at the Republicas every night of the fucking week: you have no say. If I want to throw myself into Union Bay with a sack of rocks tied around my fucking ankle: You. Have. No. Say.”

Enjolras stared blankly for a long moment. Then his hand shot out, grabbing at Grantaire’s shirt. If he’d been furious before, he was absolutely apoplectic now. “You selfish fool. You hypocrite. I don’t have a say in your life? You demand that I lighten up, and I try. You demand I let you in, and I do. But I don’t have a say in whether or not you jump into Union Bay? Fuck you.”

When Enjolras released his shirt, Grantaire fell back a step. Enjolras was a passionate man, and he was speaking with passion now. His hair shone under the kitchen lights, his mouth was set in a firm line, and his jaw was clenched. He was magnificent.

He was also right. Enjolras was always right. The fight flooded out of Grantaire’s body like it had never been, leaving him feeling flat and tired.

“I…Enjolras,” Grantaire stuttered, not quite knowing what to say. “This is just…it’s hard, and I don’t know how to make it easier.”

At Grantaire’s defeated tone, the fight seemed to leave Enjolras too. Grantaire moved to Enjolras’ side, leaning his backside against the island. They both stared straight ahead.

“This isn’t the way I want things to be between us, Grantaire,” said Enjolras quietly. “I get lost in the work because it’s more important than we are. I’m critical because I don’t know how else to be. I don’t want that to make you think I don’t care about you.”

Grantaire closed his eyes and thought about Javert. He thought about Jehan. He thought about Eponine, and that kid from the alley. What was he thinking, kissing Jehan like that?

“Whoa. What’s happening here?”

Grantaire’s eyes flew open to see Jehan standing in the doorway.

“Oh, you know,” said Grantaire, struggling for composure. Hopefully Jehan would interpret any quaver in his voice as the result of the drugs and the alcohol. “The usual.”


	6. Poetry

Grantaire’s jaw cracked around a wicked yawn as he followed Eponine into Enjolras’ living room. It was dawn. Dawn. He hadn’t woken up before dawn in years. Stayed up until dawn, sure, but woken up? Only his absolute certainty that Courfeyrac wouldn’t let Enjolras call an emergency meeting at this time on a Wednesday unless it was a matter of life or death had given him the strength to crawl off his futon.

As Grantaire settled onto the couch next to Bahorel, he decided to look on the brightside. At least he was still a little drunk from last night. That should help him deal with whatever awful news Enjolras was about to impart.

“Good morning, sunshine,” said Bahorel, obnoxiously cheerful in spite of the early hour. He poked his finger through one of the holes in Grantaire’s ratty green hoodie. “You look like shit.”

Catching sight of himself in one of the ornate mirrors littering Enjolras’ apartment, Grantaire could confirm that he did, in fact, look like shit. His hair was greasy, his eyes were bloodshot, and he was starting to break out on his chin.

He shrugged and swatted Bahorel’s hand away. Vanity was a sober man’s game. “What can I say? You’re a bad influence.”

Bahorel did his best _bitch, please_ face. “Speak for yourself,” he said.

Grantaire sighed and looked around the room. Everyone was already there: Enjolras, Courfeyrac, and Combeferre in front of the fireplace; Bossuet and Joly squished together on the other side of Bahorel; Eponine and Feuilly sitting in the two chairs; Marius and Cosette sitting together on the floor. Everyone was there except…

“Hey, B. Where’s Jehan?” asked Grantaire, sudden worry creasing his brow.

“He’s running the prep for an action across the Bay. He left yesterday,” said Bahorel. He turned to face Grantaire more fully, eyes curious. “Didn’t he tell you?”

Grantaire tried to ignore the flicker of hurt beneath his ribcage. Jehan had come to see him the day after the Republica party. He’d said that everything was getting too painful, and that he need time to let go.

Since then, Grantaire’s only contact with Jehan had been indirect; that is, he’d woken up one afternoon to find an envelope shoved under his door. There'd been a single sheet of lined paper folded inside with a brief inscription on the front, all in Jehan's spiked, crabbed handwriting.

_My Dear Grantaire,_

_I’ve written these for you, and they demand to be read._

_Your friend always,_

_Jehan_

Frowning, Grantaire had turned the letter over. Two poems had been jammed haphazardly onto the back side of the paper. Grantaire had read the poem at the top first, his frown deepening with each word.

 

> **_Treesick_ **
> 
>  
> 
> _The night knocked out my teeth._
> 
> _The day told me there was no such thing as a forest._
> 
>  
> 
> _Yesterday I lost my composure_
> 
> _and moles burrowed through the dirt with determination._
> 
>  
> 
> _I looked through cracked glasses._
> 
> _Everything appeared_
> 
>  
> 
> _exactly as it was. My reflection there was cut_
> 
> _with jagged triangles, a mountain range of red._
> 
>  
> 
> _Is there a way to sound less disappointed?_
> 
> _As if there was wind, or grass, or wind_
> 
> _in the grass?_
> 
>  
> 
> _Would forgiveness come more readily_
> 
> _if we argued in a forest?_
> 
>  
> 
> _If we fight in your apartment_
> 
> _can we wake up_
> 
>  
> 
> _in your apartment?_
> 
> _If we fight_
> 
>  
> 
> _then like weeds beside the road would our shadows_
> 
> _have no choice_
> 
>  
> 
> _but to overlap?_

 

Grantaire had rubbed the space between his eyes with an unsteady hand before moving on to the second poem.

 

> **_Untitled_ **
> 
>  
> 
> _I watch history vanish into air. I feel too young_
> 
> _for crime._
> 
>  
> 
> _Am I supposed to feel afraid? Turtles wash up on the wrong beach._
> 
> _The only measure for guilt is your hands_
> 
> _behind your back. Guilt is no different from the broke-winged pigeon_
> 
> _I hit with a rock to see what would happen. The atmosphere_
> 
>  
> 
> _keeps oscillating. The world remains intact. I keep throwing my secrets into the corner everyone keeps forgetting. For principle. “For the fun of it.” What do you care_
> 
> _if I invite a monster into my mouth. If my heart testifies_
> 
>  
> 
> _against itself?_
> 
>  
> 
> _We are never as honest as the blood we carry._

 

“Jesus fuck,” Grantaire had muttered when he’d read each poem twice. The nuances of the poems were lost to him, but the underlying feeling bled through well enough. “Why would you show me this, J?” he'd asked softly, his eyes burning.

But Grantaire had known why. For Jehan, feeling and art were both deeply ingrained compulsions. He wouldn’t have thought twice about slipping two pieces of his heart under Grantaire’s door, whatever the consequences.

Bahorel must have seen some of Grantaire’s thoughts on his face, because he backed off. “Yeah, he’s fine. Bossuet, Joly, and Feuilly are joining him as soon as we're done with whatever this is."

Grantaire could only nod and turn his attention to Enjolras, who was motioning for quiet.

“Thank you all for coming so early,” said Enjolras, calling the meeting to order. His golden hair was hidden under a knit beanie, and his clothes were rumpled. His eyes burned hot in his boyish face. “A situation has come to our attention that requires immediate action. We’ve located the two students who were disappeared outside the undergraduate library two weeks ago. They’re still alive.”

Grantaire snapped his head up, feeling more awake. Etienne’s officers disappeared people all the time. They grabbed people off the street, usually in broad daylight and usually in a crowded area. The whole point was to demonstrate that Etienne could do whatever he wanted, wherever he wanted, to whomever he wanted.

Once someone was disappeared, they were never seen again. Not while they were alive. Grantaire was the only exception he’d ever heard of.

“You all understand how important this is. That’s good. We’ve never had an opportunity like this before. If we can free them, we can show the people that Etienne isn’t as invulnerable as he likes to pretend.” Enjolras finished and gestured to Combeferre, who projected a map of the city onto the wall.

“They’re being held in a private residence on the west side. It belongs to one of the higher ups in the Officers Corps. He’s letting the government use it as a temporary holding facility,” said Combeferre. He pointed to a large house on the outskirts of the city, where urban began to bleed into suburban sprawl. “We have the codes for the security system, the guard rotations, and some other useful bits of information. This is doable.”

“It is incredibly doable,” Courfeyrac cut in, “but we need to act fast. The students are scheduled for a pump and dump this time tomorrow.”

“What’s a pump and dump?” Cosette asked. Marius gave her knee a comforting squeeze.

Bossuet cleared his throat. “It’s how the government likes to kill,” he explained gently. “When they have no further use for a prisoner, they pump them full of sedatives, load them onto a plane, and dump their body in the ocean.”

Cosette’s mouth pressed into a grim line. “I really don’t know what I expected,” she said finally.

“They think it’s clever,” added Joly. “They think they’re being sneaky. But every so often a body will wash up on the shores of Union Bay. They’re not fooling anybody.”

“Which is why it’s imperative we do this tonight,” Enjolras said. He was standing in front of the map projection now, the streets and buildings of the city stretched across his body. “If we decide to do it, that is. We have more information this time than we usually have, but it will still be incredibly dangerous. We’re putting it to a vote.”

A powerful charge of excitement ran through the group. Grantaire bit the inside of his cheek hard, remembering once again how easy it was for these people to get lost inside their own idealism. He wanted to save the students too – no one deserved to get tossed into the ocean like so much trash – but there were logistics to consider.

“Is there any sort of plan, or were you planning on dancing up to the front door?” Grantaire asked, raising his voice to be heard over the murmurs of the group.

Enjolras opened his mouth to speak, but Combeferre waved him off. “Um, well. We do have a plan of sorts. It’s…old-fashioned, you might say, but it has a good chance of success.”

“Old-fashioned?” Grantaire didn’t bother to keep the skepticism out of his voice. Enjolras had said he had a _perspective_ , and he was damn well going to use it.

“Yes. We would send a group of four to the residence. Two would remain on the outside in street clothes, and two would enter the residence dressed as officers. The two on the inside would use the codes we’ve been given to penetrate the residence’s security, which should be much less than that of a normal holding facility. They will locate the students, free them, and leave,” said Combeferre. He adjusted his glasses and took a long drink from his thermos.

“Just like that?” Grantaire asked.

“Just like that,” Enjolras answered.

Grantaire straightened on the couch, using Bahorel’s thigh as leverage. He felt completely sober now, and the smell of coffee in the room was starting to give him a headache. “What kind of plan is that? Are the people on the inside supposed to just walk out? This could all go to shit in a heartbeat.”

“You’re not wrong, Grantaire,” said Eponine, “but we’re never going to get a guarantee. I think we should risk it.”

“Yes,” said Feuilly fervently. “We have to do this.”

“I’m not saying we shouldn’t,” Grantaire answered, putting his hands up. “I just think we need to think it through.”

Enjolras crossed his arms over his chest and looked at Grantaire thoughtfully. He tilted his head to the side, considering. “Courf, Combeferre, and I are going to hammer out the details of the plan for the rest of the day. Would you vote in favor if we asked you join us? You could help us…think it through.”

“Uh…” Grantaire paused awkwardly, caught off guard by Enjolras’ request. “Uh, yeah. Yeah, that would be fine.”

Enjolras smiled so brilliantly that Grantaire had to look away. He clapped his hands, bringing the groups attention back to him. “Alright, people. Grantaire is on board. Time to vote. All in favor?”

Every hand in the room went up.

“Beautiful." Satisfaction ran thick in Enjolras' voice. "As for the team of four, we were thinking Marius and me for the outside, Bahorel and Joly for the inside. Everyone else would be prep and back up."

"Fuck yeah!" exclaimed Bahorel, delighted.

Joly wasn't happy, but he was nodding. "Yeah, ok. Knowing the officers, the prisoners will need immediate medical attention. And someone has to keep Bahorel from setting the place on fire."

"Exactly," said Courfeyrac. "Marius?"

Marius glanced at Cosette. "You know I'm in."

"Alright," said Enjolras. "Let's do this."

 

* * *

 

Grantaire hung around for a few minutes after the vote before making his way to the bathroom. He leaned his forehead against the cool, tiled wall and pulled his latest burner phone from his pocket.

Javert would want to know about this. Of course he would want to know. But if Grantaire leaked the details, what would happen to Bahorel and Joly? What would happen to Marius? To Enjolras?

The thought of something happening to Enjolras made the blood freeze in Grantaire's veins.

On the other hand, if Javert found out Grantaire was withholding information, he might decide that Grantaire was useless after all. He might go after Eponine.

Each second stretched into an eternity as Grantaire stood there, his finger hovering over the keypad.

With a noise that was equal parts desperation and frustration, Grantaire shoved the phone back into his pocket. He couldn't do it. He just couldn't. Javert wouldn't expect him to have such high level information this soon anyway, no matter what threats the man issued.

Grantaire would send a text a few hours before the operation to say he'd heard something big was about to go down. No specifics. Nothing that could get anyone hurt. That should cover his ass with Javert.

At least, that's what Grantaire hoped.


	7. See You on the Other Side

Planning the raid consumed the rest of the afternoon. As expected, Enjolras, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac did most of the heavy lifting. Grantaire chimed in occasionally, but he mainly served as a deterrent; every time one of the three men – usually Enjolras – made a stupid, dangerous suggestion, one sour look or raised eyebrow from Grantaire had them revising their position.

They trusted him. The entire situation made Grantaire want to crawl out of his skin.

With only an hour left until the start of the mission, the four of them packed into Combeferre’s sensible mid-sized sedan and drove to the site. Grantaire sat in the back with Courfeyrac, anxiety clawing at his stomach and the back of his throat. The others must have felt the same way, because the atmosphere in the car was painfully tense.

Grantaire wanted to roll down the window and breathe the crisp night air, but he knew it wasn’t safe. He reached into his pocket instead and pulled out the plastic baggy of amphetamines Eponine had given him earlier.

Enjolras caught sight of the bag in the rearview mirror and twisted in the passenger’s seat, his face hard with disapproval. “Are you serious, Grantaire? What are those?”

“It’s just amphetamines,” Grantaire said, swallowing a couple of the pills dry. Amphetamines made him feel more awake, more alive. They made his heart beat faster. He held the bag out to Enjolras and shook it, making the pills knock together. “You want?”

Enjolras’ jaw firmed like Grantaire had just asked him to snort a line of coke off a toilet seat. “No, Grantaire, I do not want to take drugs thirty minutes before I become responsible for the lives of four people.”

Grantaire merely shrugged and put the bag away. Enjolras was probably right, but he needed something to distract him. Terror was an extremely unpleasant feeling.

When they arrived at the site, the other Friends were already there. Bahorel and Joly were in the officers’ uniforms Eponine had procured, and Feuilly was leaning against a black, unmarked van. The van was what they were going to use to transport the students, although Grantaire had no idea where Feuilly had gotten it from. It certainly didn’t belong to him.

“Alright, you all know the deal,” said Enjolras. They were grouped together in an alley a few blocks from the house, carefully tucked into one of the few surveillance blind spots in the area. “Bahorel and Joly go in with the 2:00 a.m. shift change. Marius and I hang out on the street, looking like a couple of rich fops. Bahorel and Joly make their way to the prisoners as quickly as they can, following the route we’ve marked out. They enter the fake orders that the pump and dump has been moved up and bring out the prisoners under the pretense that they’re headed to the airfield. Then Marius and I help get the prisoners to the van. Got it?”

Everyone nodded.

Enjolras nodded back. “Get in position.”

Everyone scattered. Grantaire took a step toward the van – he was supposed to wait in the back with Combeferre and Courfeyrac to monitor the operation’s progress via walkie – but his feet refused to carry him any farther. He was too scared to keep going.

“Enj,” he called, spinning on his heel and jogging toward the entrance of the alley. He could barely see Enjolras. The night was too dark. “Wait up.”

Enjolras slowed and looked back. He was dressed in the unofficial Republica kid uniform: tight colored jeans, a striped polo shirt, and a well-fitted blazer. To complete the look, his usual curls had been straightened, gelled, and parted to the side. He looked like an asshole. He looked rich. The officials wouldn’t give him a second glance. “Grantaire?”

“Fuck,” said Grantaire, his breaths coming too quickly as he reached Enjolras. Jesus, but he was out of shape. He used to box, but he’d given it up after his parents stopped paying for his gym membership. Alcohol was more his speed anyway. “You’re fast.”

“What is it?” Enjolras whispered, sounding worried. “Did something happen?”

“Uh, well.” Grantaire froze, unsure of what to say. That seemed to be a common theme when he was around Enjolras.

“What is it? I have to go.” Enjolras motioned to the empty street behind him. Marius, Bahorel, and Joly were already gone. “Grantaire?”

“Nothing’s wrong. Or, you know, everything is wrong, but not any more wrong than the amount of wrongness there just was.” Grantaire winced. That was practically incoherent.

“Is this because of those pills? Are you high?” Anger was beginning to overtake concern in Enjolras’ voice. He jabbed an accusatory finger at Grantaire’s chest. “So help me, if you compromise this mission-”

“What? No!” Grantaire cut Enjolras off vehemently, shaking his head. It was time to shit or get off the pot. “I, uh…I just wanted to say…you know. Be careful. Don’t die.”

Even in the dark, Grantaire could see the anger drain out of Enjolras’ posture. Now he just seemed confused, tilting his head to the side like a puppy who’d heard a strange noise. “Don’t die? You ran after me to tell me not to die?”

Grantaire licked his lips, feeling stupid. He _was_ stupid. The only explanation he could offer was the _fear_ , the cold, coiled serpent in his gut that spoke of Enjolras and ruin. “Uh, yes.” He shrugged, helpless.

“Ok. Thanks,” Enjolras said. He sounded a little dumbstruck and extremely uncertain. “I appreciate it.”

They stood in silence for a moment, looking at each other. Then Grantaire cleared his throat. “Well, that’s it. Good luck.”

Grantaire made a move to go, but Enjolras caught him by the sleeve. “I’m serious,” said Enjolras, his voice insistent and his eyes intent. “It really means a lot to me. That you would say that.”

Enjolras’ hand flitted from Grantaire’s sleeve to his shoulder, and then up to his face. The soft pads of his fingers scraped against Grantaire’s stubble; he hadn’t shaved in a couple of days and his beard was coming in strong.

“I want to talk to you,” Enjolras murmured, pressing his fingers into Grantaire’s jaw before letting his hand fall back to his side. “I keep waiting for the right time, but there’ll never be a right time. When I get back, we’re talking.”

“Whatever you want,” Grantaire said. He meant it, too.

Enjolras smiled tightly, a flash a brilliant white in fuzzy black, and then he ran from the alley.

 

* * *

 

The rescue started smoothly enough. Bahorel and Joly made it inside with little trouble; the stolen security codes allowed them unrestricted access to the more heavily protected parts of the building. Grantaire sat in the back of the van, listening closely to Bahorel and Joly’s chatter.

“We’re at the door,” said Bahorel, his voice crackling over the channel. “I had to, uh…incapacitate a couple guards, but they’ll live.”

“That man is an absolute wizard with a stun baton,” said Courfeyrac. There was a hint of a grin on his face, but it looked manic in the wan illumination of the lantern they were using to light the van. “Not that he needs one.”

Combeferre grabbed the walkie away from Courfeyrac, exasperation clear on his face. “If you wouldn’t mind, Courf, some of us are trying to do our jobs.”

Feuilly threw a balled up piece of paper at Courfeyrac from the driver’s seat. “Yeah, I can’t hear what they’re saying.”

“Ok, we’re in,” said Bahorel.

There was short pause followed by Joly’s voice. “We have the students. They’re banged up pretty bad, but they’re mobile. I’ve done what I can for them.”

“We just have to cuff ‘em. Then we’re getting out of here,” Bahorel said.

Enjolras’ voice crackled over the line next. “Affirmative. We’re in position outside. Retrieval team, standby.”

“Acknowledged,” said Combeferre into the walkie.

Grantaire took advantage of the brief lull in action to wipe the sweat from his brow. Although the night outside was cold, the back of the van was hot with the body heat of four grown men. Bossuet, Eponine, and Cosette were back at Combeferre’s apartment, readying the space for the arrival of the students.

Grantaire jumped when the walkie beeped to life again. “Almost there,” said Bahorel. “One more door to go.”

There was another pause. “It isn’t working,” said Bahorel. “I just tried it twice, and it isn’t working. If I enter another wrong code, the alarm will go off.”

Grantaire exchanged uneasy glances with Combeferre and Courfeyrac, but refused to panic just yet. They had planned for this.

“Try the manual override,” said Combeferre, gripping the walkie tightly.

“I am trying!” Grantaire could hear the frustration in Bahorel’s voice. “The system isn’t recognizing the USB.”

“Shit. Shit.” Courfeyrac swore loudly as he flipped open the plans of the building they’d brought with them. “Why would just one code not work? And the very last one?”

“What about that alternate route we planned?” Enjolras’ voice was calm and authoritative, just like always. “Can you get to it?”

Joly answered hesitantly. “We’re pretty far, and Victoire has a broken foot. It’s possible that we can make it, but we won’t be able to move fast enough to avoid the next patrol.”

Another pause. Grantaire stared at the plans on the floor of the van. He’d known something like this would happen, from the moment Enjolras had proposed the plan, but he’d been so charmed by Enjolras that he’d barely protested at all.

“What if I provided a distraction? If I found those guards first and lured them away long enough for Joly to get out with the others?” asked Bahorel.

Grantaire dove for the walkie, pulling it from Combeferre’s hands. The flaw in Bahorel’s plan was obvious, though it was just like Bahorel to suggest it. “Don’t be ridiculous, B,” said Grantaire. “Then how would you get out?”

“That you, Taire? Don’t worry about me,” said Bahorel.

Grantaire was pleading into the walkie now, trying to keep his voice steady. “No, just hold on a second. We’ve barely considered other options. Just give us a minute and we’ll think of something else.”

Joly broke in, voice tight and anxious. “We don’t have a minute. I hear voices coming.”

Grantaire looked at Combeferre and Courfeyrac, frantic, but Courfeyrac just shook his head. “We all knew the risks,” he said.

Grantaire shrank away from the two of them. Things had been going fine one second and then turned to utter shit the next. Everything was happening so quickly.

“Uh, listen to me. Blast through the door, B. If the game is already up, it doesn’t matter how many alarms go off. Blast it and run like hell. We’ll be waiting for you outside,” said Grantaire, desperately trying to revise the plan.

The walkie crackled with static again, but this time it was Enjolras’ voice. “No. If you blast the door, you’ll bring every officer in the city down on our heads. None of us will make it.”

“We’ll figure it out,” shouted Grantaire. He could feel Combeferre’s and Courfeyrac’s eyes on him, but he didn’t care. “We can’t leave them there!”

“We’re not,” said Enjolras. “B, pull those guards away from Joly. Do whatever you have to do. Joly, get those students out of there.”

“Gotcha, boss,” said Bahorel. Grantaire could hear the smile in voice, even over the walkie. “See you on the other side.”

Grantaire stared at the walkie in his hands like it was poison. For all of his drinking and drugs and escapist behavior, Grantaire had never been one to run from hard truths, and he wasn’t harboring any illusions now. Bahorel was on a suicide mission. A suicide mission Enjolras had ordered.

Grantaire dropped the walkie and lunged for the door. He was able to curl his fingers around the handle before he felt hands on each of his legs, pulling him back.

“Let me go!” Grantaire snarled, kicking his legs, trying to dislodge Combeferre and Courfeyrac. Feuilly was starting the engine, preparing to pick up the others.

“Why?” asked Combeferre. “Where are you going to go? What are you going to do? Think this through, Grantaire.”

“We have time! We can think of something else!” Grantaire had stopped kicking, but Combeferre and Courfeyrac were still holding him down. He closed his burning eyes and wished for Jehan. Jehan would have backed him up. Jehan wouldn’t have ordered Bahorel to his death. 

Courfeyrac grunted as he hauled Grantaire into a sitting position. “You think you’re the only one who cares about Bahorel?” he asked, not gently at all. “He knew what he was doing. You have to respect that.”

The walkie crackled to life again. “Joly and the students are out of the building. Marius and I are moving in now.”

Feuilly took that as his cue and the van began to move. A few minutes after that the door was opening and Joly was clambering inside, followed by two bruised and bloody college kids, Marius, and, finally, Enjolras.

Bahorel, of course, wasn’t with them.

Grantaire crammed himself into the back corner of the van, as far as he could get from where Joly was examining a nasty cut on the forearm of the female prisoner. Victoire. That was what Joly had called her. What a joke.

Enjolras crawled past the knot of people near the door as Feuilly drove away. He slid down next to Grantaire. “Are you alright?” he asked, laying his hand on Grantaire’s knee.

Grantaire flinched away, though he couldn’t go very far in the cramped confines of the van. “Don’t talk to me,” he said. His voice was flat and dead, but he couldn’t muster the strength to put any emotion in it.

“What?”

“You didn’t have to give that order. Bahorel could have gunned through the door and we could have all run, together. But you sent him to die.” Grantaire wasn’t looking at Enjolras, couldn’t look. Couldn’t look, couldn’t feel, couldn’t breathe.

Enjolras gripped Grantaire’s chin and tried to pry his face around, but Grantaire was having none of it. He swatted Enjolras’ hand from his face. “You can’t be serious, Grantaire,” said Enjolras, low and furious. “We’re all upset. But if Bahorel hadn’t done what he did, we could all be dead now. I did what I had to do.”

Grantaire forced himself to meet Enjolras’ eyes. “No. You didn’t have to. You chose to. Because the cause was more important than your friend.”

“Yes!” Enjolras hissed. “The work we’re doing is more important than all of us. I’ve always said that.”

Grantaire ignored him and pulled out his phone. He flipped to his contact list.

“Who are you calling?” asked Enjolras. He sounded tired, but not nearly as tired as Grantaire felt.

“Jehan,” said Grantaire. “Someone has to tell him Bahorel is dead.”

Enjolras opened his mouth but didn’t say anything. He nodded once. “I’ll give you some privacy then.”

Grantaire listened to Jehan’s phone ring as he watched Enjolras climb to the front of the van.   


	8. Death Caps

Grantaire sat in the back of the van, grasping, hurting, and waiting. Jehan’s phone rang loud in his ear, the tinny sound doing nothing to stop the groans of the students as Joly continued his triage. The ringing couldn’t stop the rank odor of sweat and blood from filling the van either. Couldn’t stop Grantaire’s hands from shaking.

Jehan’s phone rang and rang and rang before kicking to voicemail.

_Hey, it’s Jehan. Tell me the truth._

Grantaire jerked at the loud beep that followed, nearly dropping his phone. For one brief moment, he felt betrayed. Then he realized how ridiculous that was and hit redial.

_Hey, it’s Jehan. Tell me the truth._

Grantaire ended the call and checked the time. It was just past 2:30 in the morning. There could be a million reasons why Jehan wasn’t picking up. He was organizing. He was writing. He was drinking. He was sleeping.

Maybe he was fucking. Maybe he was jacking off in the dark, his legs tangled in the cheap sheets of whatever pull-out couch he was crashing on for the night.

Grantaire dug his dirty nails into the meat of his forearm, hard enough to draw blood. His brain always did this when it was overwhelmed. It imploded. It chased alcohol and drugs and sex and fights with officers. It became one endless rabbit hole, reflecting all the darkest parts of him into infinity, like some nightmarish funhouse mirror.

Grantaire pressed his cheek against the van’s heavily tinted window. Condensation created by the hot breath of seven people hitting cold glass collected on his skin and slid down his neck. He closed his eyes, hoping to wrench his thoughts onto a new path. A path that didn’t have Jehan’s head thrown back or, heaven forbid, Bahorel.

For one brief moment, it worked. Instead of seeing Jehan, Grantaire saw the breath of the people in the van rising up to form little clouds. The clouds seemed friendly at first, white and puffy, like sheep. They soon grew fatter, however, and darker, so much darker that the light of the lantern was smothered beneath a thick coating of mist. When the weight of the water became too much, the clouds burst like rotten peaches.

Mushrooms sprang up, pushing themselves through the damp, fetid remains of the clouds as Grantaire looked on with closed eyes. They were gorgeous little things: bright red with white spots. Death caps. A good brain would warn a person not to eat something so beautiful.

Then Jehan was back, moaning on the pull-out couch. Only this time, it wasn't Jehan. It was Enjolras. His golden hair was spread around his head in a bright halo, and his hand was down his pants.

“Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.” Grantaire’s eyes flew open. He tried Jehan again, careful not to look towards the front passenger seat.

_Hey, it’s Jehan. Tell me the truth._

_Hey, it’s Jehan. Tell me the truth._

_Hey, it’s Jehan. Tell me the truth._

“GODDAMN IT!” Grantaire didn’t realize he’d yelled until he noticed that aside from the ex-prisoners and Joly, everyone in the van had fallen silent. They were all watching him, near identical expressions of worry twisting their faces.

Grantaire was spared from explaining his outburst when Feuilly stopped the van in front of Combeferre’s apartment.

Joly supervised the transport of his patients, whispering, “Gently, gently,” whenever Courfeyrac or Enjolras moved them too quickly. Eponine, who’d appeared at the entrance of Combeferre’s building when the van pulled up, was holding the heavy door open as the group hurried off the street.

“Hey, Grantaire. You need to get out.”

“What?” Grantaire blinked his eyes, hard, and realized that he was alone in the back of the van.

Feuilly was fully rotated, looking at him from the driver’s seat. His mouth was drawn in a sad line, and his red hair was sticking up in the front. “I need to ditch the van, man. Are you okay to walk?” It was a testament to the supreme shittiness of the evening that Feuilly’s voice was gentle. Feuilly was the only person Grantaire had ever met who was more intense than Enjolras.

“Uh, yeah. Yes. Just let me…” Grantaire flipped onto his knees and started to crawl. When he got to the door, he used the handle to lever himself to his feet.

Before he could close the door, Feuilly spoke again. “Grantaire?” Grantaire paused, his hand on the handle. A complicated mix of emotions played across Feuilly’s face, but the only one Grantaire could read in the dark was _earnestness_. “I’m sorry. I’m more sorry than I can say. Bahorel didn’t deserve that, and neither do you.”

“In my experience, people rarely get the things they deserve,” said Grantaire.

Feuilly considered that for a moment; then he shrugged and turned to face the road again. Both of his hands were wrapped around the steering wheel tightly enough to turn his knuckles white. “That’s been my experience too. You, though. You’re a good person. Not many of those left.”

“No. Not many left at all,” said Grantaire. He dragged the door closed, taking care not to slam it. The van pulled away from the curb and disappeared around the corner.

 

* * *

 

When Grantaire stepped off the elevator on Combeferre’s floor, Eponine was waiting for him.

“Nope,” she said, pushing him back into the elevator. “We’re going up.”

Grantaire let himself be manhandled, too tired to put up a fight. They exited on the top floor of the building, and Eponine led him to a flight of stairs marked _Roof: No Access_. Eponine produced a keycard – one she’d stolen from Combeferre, who’d originally stolen it from his property manager – and held it over the lock.

Together they made the climb to the roof. Taking Grantaire by the hand, Eponine led him to a couple of overturned buckets placed close to the edge. “Want a smoke?” she asked, digging through her purse. “I have some in here somewhere.”

“I definitely want _something_ ,” he replied, sinking onto the bucket. The wind whipped his hair around his head, partially blinding him. He knew the wind should be cold, should be cutting, but he couldn’t feel it.

Eponine finally fished two cigarettes and a lighter out of her bag. “Hands,” she ordered, leaning close to Grantaire. He raised his hands obligingly, cupping them around the cigarettes and the lighter to block the wind.

“Alright,” she said, taking a drag from her cigarette. “Combeferre called me from the van. He told me what happened. He said you were having some kind of breakdown.” She inhaled and exhaled, watching as the wind carried the smoke to some other rooftop. “From what I can see, he wasn’t wrong.”

“I don’t...” Grantaire wished he knew how to describe what he was feeling. He wished he could tell Eponine everything. “You know what, Ep? Maybe. Maybe I am.”

They lapsed into silence. Combeferre’s building was close to Enjolras’, but in a different neighborhood, a cheaper one. Of course, cheap was a relative term. Combeferre’s neighborhood was light years better than the one Grantaire lived in; the high rise apartment buildings in this part of town were clean and graceful, and the streets were well lit. It was the kind of building Grantaire might have lived in if his parents hadn’t decided to wash their hands of him.

Grantaire finished his cigarette and mashed the butt into the side of the bucket. “I saw this movie once,” he said. Eponine looked at him, eyebrow raised. She hadn’t expected him to be the one to break the silence. “The people in this movie, they killed themselves. And when they died, they went to this place where everything was exactly the same as it’d been before, except it was all just a little bit worse.”

He looked away from Eponine, out at the lights of the city. The lights went right up to the water’s edge and beyond, winking from the arms of the huge shipping cranes that crouched by the shipyards. For years, geologists had been warning Etienne that the city’s infrastructure needed updating. That one good earthquake along the closest fault line would either collapse half the city into the sea or wash the city away in an unstoppable tsunami.

“I knew, Ep. I knew what the consequences would be if we kept this shit up. But I didn’t _know_.” His voice cracked on the last word, and he had to stop for a second, just to breath. “Well, now I fucking _know_. I know it in my bones. I know, and this shirt is exactly the same as it was two hours ago, and the bag of pills in my pocket is exactly the same, and this building and this city and this entire goddamn planet.”

Eponine had started crying. She wasn’t holding the cigarette anymore, and she was crying.

Grantaire stood abruptly, took two jerky steps toward the stairs, and stopped. He turned back around. Eponine was standing now too, her bag slumped next to the bucket she’d been sitting on.

“I know he was your friend first. I know you knew him longer. But, Ep, I…” He lifted his hand to his forehead, shielding his eyes from view. There was a pressure building behind them, on ominous constriction that started in his throat and went clear up through his eyes. “Bahorel and Enjolras and Jehan and everything is just so fucked up. I need…”

His breath caught as the constriction in his throat became too much. The first tear of the night slithered down his cheek, a harbinger of what was to come. “I just need some help. Right now, I need you to help me.” He lowered his hand, letting Eponine see him. If someone didn’t look at him, really look at him, the wind was going to blow him away. “I can’t be alone.”

Eponine made a little noise. Then she was moving, wrapping her arms around Grantaire and holding him tight. Her body was warm, solid, and real.

“You’re not alone,” she said, squeezing him hard. “I promise.”

Grantaire held on tight and remembered why he’d started all this in the first place.

 

* * *

 

The next morning dawned clear and bright. In spite of his physical and mental exhaustion, Grantaire had once again been unable to sleep – too many amphetamines tended to do that to a person. He’d stayed up with Eponine instead, letting her pet his hair as they’d lain together on the bed in Combeferre’s guest room.

After the sun came up and Eponine fell asleep, Grantaire ventured into the common areas of Combeferre’s apartment. He found Bossuet and Combeferre in the kitchen, Combeferre drinking a cup of coffee and Bossuet shoving papers into a backpack.

Combeferre frowned when he saw Grantaire. “You haven’t slept at all, have you?”

“I can’t,” Grantaire answered simply. “Not yet.” He narrowed his eyes at Bossuet, who was now throwing all manner of electronics chargers into the backpack with the papers. “You going somewhere?”

Bossuet finished his packing and hefted the backpack by one strap, testing its weight. “Yes,” he said. “I’m going across the Bay. My ferry leaves at 7:30.”

“But Bahorel said…” Grantaire trailed off, unable to finish the sentence. “I mean, I heard you and Joly were meeting Jehan, but not until you could be spared, and we sure as hell can’t spare you now. In fact, shouldn’t Jehan be coming back here? I tried to call him last night, but he wasn’t answering his phone.”

Combeferre set his cup down and scratched the patchy stubble coming in around his jaw. It reminded Grantaire that he wasn’t the only one who hadn’t slept. “That’s the problem,” Combeferre said. He held his hands up to Grantaire, palms out, like he was trying to calm a wild animal. “No one has been able to get through to him, and he’s missed two consecutive check-ins. None of our other members seem to know where he is.”

A high-pitched buzzing filled Grantaire’s ears. “You’re kidding.”

Bossuet swung the backpack over his broad shoulders. “I’m afraid not.”

“This isn’t happening.”

“Don’t panic yet, Grantaire,” said Combeferre, his matter-of-fact voice doing little to stem the rising tide of fear in Grantaire’s chest. Bahorel had just died hours ago, and now Jehan was missing? “Things like this happen. Sometimes we get caught up in sweeps or the officials decide to snoop and we need to lay low for awhile. You know how it works.”

“I’ll report back every half hour,” Bossuet added. He squeezed Grantaire’s shoulder as he passed. “You take care of Joly, alright? He’s staying to take care of Victoire and Henri.”

“Uh, sure.”

Bossuet shared one last long look with Combeferre and left.

“This is way too fucking much,” whispered Grantaire, his fear sublimating into numbness.

Combeferre sighed loudly and picked his coffee up again. “Agreed. I’ve never seen things get this bad. And Enjolras-” Combeferre cut himself off, shooting a sharp glance Grantaire’s way. “Anyway, you’re welcome to wait things out here. You can sleep, if you think you can manage it. Someone will wake you up the second there’s news.”

In that moment, Grantaire ran face first into his exhaustion. He wanted to sleep, desperately. That, of course, made him feel guilty. Why should he be able to sleep?

“You can’t do anything for him as you are,” said Combeferre. “Go to sleep. Someone will wake you up.”

Once again, Grantaire was too tired to fight. “Fine.” He turned to go back to the guest room.

“And, Grantaire?” Combeferre asked. He sounded reluctantly, like he wanted to do anything but say what he was about to say.

Grantaire blew out a breath, but he didn’t turn around. “Yeah?”

“Enjolras wanted me to remind you that you agreed to talk with him. He said it was important. He was quite insistent. Call him, when you’re ready.”

Grantaire resumed walking. “Whatever.”


	9. Like Hope

Grantaire woke feeling disoriented and sick. A wave of vertigo hit him as he sat up, making the room shift and blur around him. “Jesus fuck,” he groaned, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes.

“Alright?” Eponine mumbled from the other side of the bed. She was facing away from him, one leg curled under the other and both hands tucked under her head.

Grantaire dropped his hands, groaned, and swung his legs over the side of the bed. Judging by the light filtering in through the crack in the curtains, it couldn’t be much later than midday. “I’m not sure,” he said finally, running his tongue over his top teeth. His mouth tasted like death.

Eponine nodded absently and pulled the covers over her head.

Careful not to trip over his or Eponine’s shoes, Grantaire made his way to the bathroom. Like many members of the Friends, Combeferre always kept a few spare toothbrushes and toothpaste for guest use. Grantaire, of course, had never bothered to keep toiletries in his miserable excuse for an apartment, but he was grateful to those who did. He rummaged around the drawers until he found the toothbrush stash and scrubbed the gunk from his teeth.

After he finished, Grantaire considered his reflection in the bathroom mirror. He wasn’t a handsome man on the best of days, but today was a new low. His unwashed hair was greasy enough that the curls on the top of his head had flattened. His normally round face looked sunken and sallow. Patches of rough stubble contrasted oddly against the paleness of his face, and his eyes were so edged in darkness that he looked fresh from a brawl.

He looked like an addict. He looked poor. He looked like one of his best friends had just died the night before, with another missing.

“Well,” he said as he ran a finger along his jaw. He met his eyes in the mirror and sighed. “Fuck you too.” Good thing he didn’t care about how he looked or how dirty he was. It made life so much easier, relatively speaking.

Grantaire shrugged, flipped off his reflection, and left for the kitchen.

Joly was sitting at the table when Grantaire walked in, a laptop open in front of him. He offered Grantaire a small smile. "Morning sunshine."

"Any news?"

“Bossuet hasn’t found anything yet, and Combeferre left with Enjolras about half an hour ago." Joly narrowed his eyes, definitely unhappy with Grantaire's sickly appearance. "There are glasses in the cabinet next to the sink if you’d like some water. And I made some tea. A nice Darjeeling.” Joly waved a little ceramic teapot sitting on the counter. The teapot was adorable. Of course it was Joly’s.

Grantaire grabbed a glass and filled it water; then he chugged the whole thing. The water ended up tasting like toothpaste, but he was too dehydrated to care. His hands were already starting to shake. When the water was gone, Grantaire set aside the glass and pulled a mug from the cabinet. "Does Combeferre have any honey?" he asked, turning to Joly. 

“I think so. Check the pantry.”

“Awesome.” Grantaire retrieved the honey from the pantry before grabbing Combeferre’s stash of whiskey from the cabinet above the fridge. What use was black tea if you couldn’t make a hot toddy out of it?

Grantaire dropped into the chair opposite Joly, sipping his drink. Joly eyed the steaming mug with distaste, but still managed to smile. “The honey reminded me of something,” he said. “What did the pony say when it had a sore throat?”

Grantaire decided to play along, grateful that Joly hadn’t said anything about the whiskey. Joly hated Grantaire’s drinking almost as much as Enjolras did, and the doctor in him was probably dying to point out that alcohol worsens dehydration. “I don’t know.”

“Sorry, I’m a little horse.”

Grantaire felt his nose crinkling as he half grimaced, half smiled. It was the kind of joke that would have made Bahorel groan. “Little horse, right. Thanks for that.”

“They don’t call me Joly for nothing,” Joly said. He shifted his laptop to the side, signaling his intent to make this a proper conversation. “Seriously, though. How are you?”

“Who cares about me?” Grantaire drained the rest of his drink and set the mug aside. It hadn’t tasted great. The tea had been too cold at the start, and it had really needed some cinnamon. The taste, however, was not the point. “How are you? You were the one who was in there with…with him.”

“We all care about you, Grantaire. You’re one of us.” Joly looked so sincere that Grantaire wanted to puke. “As for me…I’m wrecked. I’m devastated.”

Wrecked. Devastated. That’s how Grantaire felt too. “So what do we do now?”

Joly leaned over the table and took Grantaire’s hands in his. He squeezed gently and smiled sadly. “We do what people have always done. We lean on each other and we wait.” He dropped Grantaire’s hands and drew in a noisy breath through his nose. “And in the meantime, we do our jobs.”

“So is that what you’re doing? Your job?” Grantaire nodded at the laptop. If he didn’t change the subject, he was going to cry again, and the last thing he needed was more water leaving his body.

“Uh, yeah,” Joly said, leaning back in his chair. He tucked back a piece of his dark brown hair that had come loose when he’d leaned across the table. “I’m here for Victoire and Henri, but I’m catching up on some reading while I wait.”

Grantaire’s eyebrows rose before he could stop them. Sometimes he forgot he was still in school, but of course Joly would have work to do.

“I think you’d be interested in this article, actually,” continued Joly. “The findings show that people living in poverty are under such a massive cognitive load that they don’t have much attention to spare for things that might help them in the long term – resisting the things they should be resisting, for example. In terms of numbers, poverty imposes a burden equivalent to losing 13 IQ points. That’s about the cognitive difference between a, um, chronic alcoholic,” Joly cleared his throat awkwardly and flicked his gaze toward Grantaire’s mug, “and a healthy adult.”

Grantaire chose to ignore the personal implications of Joly’s _chronic alcoholic_  and scoffed loudly instead. “That must be from a foreign journal. Etienne would never let that slide. He thinks poverty is a social good. People work better when they’re hungry, clearly.”

Joly laced his fingers together and reached for the ceiling, stretching the muscles in his shoulders and back. Grantaire could hear the joints crack in his hands. “The belief that the poor deserve to suffer is an essential part of many people’s world view, not just Etienne’s,” Joly said, releasing his arms from their stretch. “It makes the world into something built on reason, which is easier to face than a world where our happiness is mainly contingent on luck and built on injustice.”

“Luck and injustice, huh?” said Grantaire with a wry twist of his mouth. “That sounds about right.”

They sat together in silence after that. Grantaire made himself a few more fortified teas and traced the grain on the table with an idle finger. Joly made himself a sandwich and checked on the students every so often. The silence was only interrupted by Joly’s phone, which chimed every half hour, on the half hour with Bossuet’s updates. With every buzz of Joly’s phone, Grantaire lifted his eyebrows in question, but he was only ever answered with a small shake of Joly’s head.

They’d gone through this ritual five times when Joly’s phone rang loudly, startling Grantaire out of his reverie.

“It’s Combeferre,” Joly said after checking the screen. He slid his finger across the screen to answer. “Hey.”

Grantaire watched as Joly listened intently to whatever Combeferre was saying. Finally Joly closed his eyes, seemingly in relief, and turned to Grantaire. “Jehan’s alive.”

Relief and dread crashed through Grantaire in equal measure, making him feel sick all over again. “But he’s not okay? What happened?”

Joly held up a finger while he turned his attention back to Combeferre. He nodded every so often, making small noises of distress and agreement. “No, he’s here,” Joly finally said. “I’ll tell him. Keep us posted.” He hung up.

“What happened?”

“Grantaire,” Joly said slowly, meeting Grantaire’s eyes. “Grantaire, my friend.”

Grantaire stared at Joly blankly. “I swear to God, Joly, spit it out.”

“Jehan’s alive, but he’s hurt. He’s at Legacy.”

“What’s wrong with him?”

“Combeferre wouldn’t say exactly,” Joly answered, looking worried. “There was something about a head injury and maybe his hands. The important part is that he'll live. Combeferre and Courf are with him at the hospital.”

“But how did he…” Grantaire jumped up and began to pace. He felt uncontrollable. He felt wild. “He was on the other side of the Bay yesterday! Why is he in a hospital two miles from the university?” Grantaire stopped abruptly and spun to face Joly. “I need to get to Legacy.”

Joly bit the inside of his cheek hard enough for Grantaire to see the indent. “I’m sorry, Grantaire, but you can’t yet. Enjolras wants you to meet him. Right now.”

 

* * *

 

Grantaire was knocking on the door of the Friends’ North side safe house less than thirty minutes later. The safe house itself was an unassuming, two-story brick structure situated in the middle of a long row of nearly identical unassuming, two-story brick structures. Enjolras had probably picked it because residential areas tended to have less built-in surveillance, and the North side location was relatively close to Legacy.

The door had barely started to open when Grantaire shoved himself through, pushing past Enjolras and into the dark entranceway. He waited until he heard Enjolras close the door before he spoke. “What the hell is going on?”

Without answering, Enjolras laid a hand between Grantaire’s shoulder blades and steered him into the living room. The curtains were drawn, leaving the two old lamps sitting on either side of the room’s old, lumpy couch to illuminate the entire room. They were not up to the task. Deep shadows rested in every corner, making the walls look dark blue one second and forest green the next. 

Enjolras made a beeline for the couch and sat, pulling Grantaire down with him. “There’s a traitor in our midst,” he said bluntly. He said the word _traitor_ in a weird way, like he couldn’t get his mouth to fully form it.

The word traitoralso made the bottom fall out Grantaire’s stomach and bile rise in his throat. Suddenly, he was uncomfortably aware of the blood coursing through his veins and the air flooding in and out of his lungs.

“What?” he finally stammered out. His brain wasn’t working. He couldn’t think. He couldn’t run. Enjolras knew and there was no hiding it anymore. In a way, it was a relief.

“I know,” Enjolras said, low and fierce. “I can hardly believe it either. But Jehan…Courfeyrac found Jehan lying unconscious in the alley behind the Musain. He was put there by officers, Grantaire. Why would they do that unless they knew who he was and what he was doing? There’s no way he was picked up in some random raid. The door code failure might have been coincidence, but all of it together…it’s a conspiracy. Someone is leaking information.”

“What?” Grantaire was confused now. Enjolras was nearly incandescent with rage, but none of it seemed directed at Grantaire. “Why are you telling me this? What if I’m the spy?”

Enjolras’ lip curled slightly. “What kind of spy would constantly question the goals and methods of the organization he’s supposed to be infiltrating? Or do everything in his power to alienate the organization’s leadership? Besides, there was no way you could have known the details of Jehan’s mission. You couldn’t have been the leak.”

“How do you know there’s no way I could have known? Fuck, Enj. You shouldn’t be telling me these things!” The adrenaline that had flooded Grantaire’s body when Enjolras had started speaking was helping to fuel a sudden surge of anger. How could Enjolras be so stupid? He was blind to the most obvious things.

Enjolras cocked his head to the side, his brow furrowing. “Are you a traitor?”

In spite of what he’d just said, the question still caught Grantaire off guard. He was a mole, but he wasn’t responsible for last night. Was he? He’d told Javert that something big was going down, but that couldn’t possibly have been enough for the officers to change the door code and catch Jehan. And yet…Grantaire didn’t know. It could have been enough.  

The alternative was that Javert had managed to turn another one of the Friends. That idea hardly bore thinking about.

Grantaire pulled himself back to the present as he realized that he’d been silent too long. Enjolras’ eyes were beginning to narrow. “If I were a spy, would I tell you?”

“You don’t tell me anything,” replied Enjolras.

The lie that came out of Grantaire’s mouth next sounded perfect. “No. I’m not a spy, no.”

Enjolras studied him intently for a moment, then reached out to clasp Grantaire’s forearm. “I trust you, Grantaire. You, me, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac are the only ones who know about this. We’ll find the leak. What happened to Bahorel and Jehan won’t be for nothing.”

Bahorel and Jehan. Grantaire jerked his arm free of Enjolras’ grip. “Jesus fuck,” he said, horrified. If he had provided the information that led to Bahorel’s death and Jehan’s capture…that meant he was responsible for Bahorel’s death and Jehan’s capture. “Oh my God.” This was every sea turtle in the world washing up on the wrong beach. This was every last bird breaking its neck on Etienne’s front door.

“Grantaire?” Enjolras looked alarmed, but Grantaire couldn’t make his heart beat slower. “Are you okay?”

Grantaire rubbed a hand across his face and stood abruptly. There was a chance he’d murdered his friend. No, he was not okay. “Yeah. Yeah, uh, everything just hit me. All at once. Sorry. I need to go. Or, uh, go to the bathroom. Wash my face or something.”

Enjolras’ hand twitched like he wanted to reach out to Grantaire but held back. “Yeah. I get that. Down the hall, first door on the right.”

“Sure.” Grantaire tore from the room and down the hall, closing and locking the bathroom door behind him. If it were true, if it had been Grantaire’s fault…that would be unforgivable. Grantaire could write down every good thing he’d ever done from the moment of his birth until his conversation with Enjolras in the living room, and it would do nothing to balance the scales.

Grantaire turned on the tap and washed his face with the towel hanging on the ring next to the sink. Whatever was actually happening, one thing was for sure: Enjolras didn’t deserve the blame for Bahorel’s death. He hadn’t deserved the things Grantaire said to him in the van. Enjolras wasn’t the traitor.

Enjolras believed things could change. He believed people could change. It made Grantaire want to crawl into Enjolras’ skin, just to know what it was like to see out of his eyes. Grantaire wanted to know what it was like to have to hope. He _needed_ to know.

Grantaire threw the towel on the floor and left the bathroom, studiously avoiding his reflection in the mirror as he turned off the lights. Shadows stretched and twisted around him on the short walk back to the living room.

“Enjolras,” he called from the doorway.

Enjolras looked up from the paper he was reading. “That was fast.”

“Yeah,” said Grantaire. He walked back to the couch and sat next to Enjolras, closer than he had before. “I just needed a second. Can I…can I say something to you?” Grantaire hadn’t expected to have this conversation when he’d come over, but now it felt necessary.

Enjolras nodded his permission.

“I’m sorry for what I said last night. Bahorel wasn’t your fault. I know it wasn’t.”

“Oh.” Enjolras’ eyes darted to the floor, to the curtained window, to Grantaire’s face, and back to the floor. “I appreciate that.”

“And I was wondering,” Grantaire continued, “what you wanted to talk about. You said last night, and then Combeferre said again this morning, that you wanted to talk.” Grantaire was lying again. He knew exactly what Enjolras wanted to talk about.

Enjolras put down his paper and scrubbed his hands through his hair. He put his left hand over his open mouth, then on his cheek, then curled his fingers and placed them under his chin. “Perhaps now isn’t the best time. It’s been a difficult twenty-four hours. You’re not yourself.”

“I’m more myself than I’ve ever been.” Enjolras was putting the weak light from the two old lamps to shame. He lit everything all his own, and colored it; a border of bright red ran around the room, originating at Enjolras and ending at Grantaire. The border trailed across the gray couch, the stitched molding, and the cracks in the window sills. It enfolded everything, unraveled carpet, and romanced the darkness that Grantaire had always cursed. “I need you to talk to me.”

“Okay,” said Enjolras slowly, unaware of the visions in Grantaire’s head. “Okay.” He took a breath. “I wanted to say that I know what you think of me. I know you think I’m a machine, or untouchable, whatever. But it’s not…that’s not true. I love this country and the people in it. I love the Friends because they’re my friends. I don’t know what I’d be without them.” His hands tightened convulsively where they gripped his jeans. “I loved Bahorel.”

Enjolras paused to take another deep breath. Grantaire remained silent, watching Enjolras’ face.

“This is a role I play, Grantaire. This person who cares more about the future than his friends, that’s a role. I play it because someone needs to make the impossible choices, and I rather it be me than Courf or Combeferre or you,” Enjolras said. Grantaire almost smiled then. Enjolras wanted to save everybody from everything. If only he knew. “I have such a clear vision of what the world could be, and I believe that this is the best way to get there. My problem is, I don’t know how to reconcile that with the way I feel about you.”  

Neither of them said anything for one beat, two beats. It was exactly what Grantaire had wanted to hear, but it didn’t make him feel any better. He needed more.

“I don’t know,” said Grantaire. “I don’t have any answers.” He turned his body toward Enjolras, who was looking down, and reached out tentatively, almost touching Enjolras’ face, but not quite. “I just want to…can I just…try something?”

Enjolras nodded again. Grantaire curled his fingers in Enjolras’ hair to feel the softness of the strands, to smooth the stray bits away from his face. “Yeah, I’m a sap,” he said in response to Enjolras’ bemused expression. “I’ve always wanted to do that. Since the first time I saw you.” The first time Grantaire had seen Enjolras was in Javert’s photo, but the point still stood.

“You touch people all the time,” said Enjolras. He leaned his forehead against Grantaire’s hand. “Eponine, Bahorel, Jehan. I've touched you, but you've never touched me.”

Grantaire slid his hand through Enjolras’ hair until it rested on the back of his head. “I hate that it took something like this to make me do it,” he said. “Can I…?”

In response, Enjolras leaned forward and kissed Grantaire. He kissed Grantaire softly and slowly, with control, never using too much pressure, but never quite pulling away. His lips were as soft as Grantaire’s were dry, and he smelled like clean things, like soap and shampoo.

Eventually Enjolras pulled back, his eyes closed.

“Look at me,” Grantaire whispered, prompting Enjolras to open his eyes. When he did, Grantaire saw something in their depths that he’d never seen in them before: fear.  

“It’s okay,” Grantaire murmured, pulling Enjolras in for another kiss, deeper this time. And for that one moment, it was okay. Enjolras felt exactly how Grantaire thought he would – like hope. Everything else could wait.  


	10. The Chicken or the Gate

Grantaire entered the dimly lit room one hesitant step at a time. He was trying to stay silent, though he wasn’t sure why; the old, wet rubber on the bottom on his sneakers squeaked conspicuously against the muted whir of electronics.

“Hello?” Jehan’s thick voice floated from behind the privacy curtain. “Who’s there?”

Gathering what little courage he still possessed, Grantaire ducked his head around the curtain. “Ah, hey. It’s me.” He held up his hands, palms facing out, and forced a tremulous smile onto his face. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

At first glance, Jehan looked better than Grantaire had thought he would. With the exception of a scrape across one side of his face, his skin was unblemished. Grantaire knew he’d been knocked across the head, but the wound must be hidden somewhere under Jehan’s black hair. He looked normal.

Until, that is, Grantaire looked at his hand.

Any pretence of a smile faded from Grantaire’s face. Jehan’s right hand was swollen grotesquely, the discolored skin stretched hot and tight across twisted bone. Stitches marched across his knuckles and wove between his fingers like a long line of black ants.

“Nonsense,” said Jehan, voice slurred with drugs. “I’m glad you’re here.”

Grantaire wrenched his eyes from the broken hand and forced himself to stand next to Jehan’s bed. “Are you? I wasn’t sure if you’d want to see me.”

Grantaire wasn’t sure how Jehan managed to roll his eyes with the amount of painkillers he had swimming around his bloodstream, but, somehow, he managed. “Don’t be stupid.”

“Ok.” Grantaire pulled the room’s chair closer to Jehan and sat down, wrapping his hands around the smooth plastic on the side of the bed. “I just...I’m so damn happy and relieved and fucking grateful you’re alive. You’re hand, though...” Grantaire trailed off and bit the inside of his lip.

“Disgusting, right?” Jehan looked at his mangled limb. He looked amazed, blue eyes full of wonder, like he was seeing the injury again for the first time. “They knew things about me. They knew I was a writer. They broke every finger, and they kept saying, ‘write us a poem now.’”

“Oh,” Grantaire breathed. Jehan wouldn’t be able to hold a pen for months, let alone write or type. Yet another beautiful thing ruined. “I’m so sorry.” To comfort himself as much as Jehan, Grantaire touched the back of Jehan’s good hand.

A dry, humorless laugh scraped its way out of Jehan’s throat. The sound was abrasive and harsh. It hurt Grantaire to hear it. “Don’t be,” Jehan said. “The joke’s on them. Everything is poetry. Even the hand.”

Another minute ticked by on the old analogue clock hanging next to the whiteboard on the wall. Their time was almost up. Grantaire ran his fingers across the back of Jehan’s hand, wondering what to say next. What do you do when a friend has faced trauma? What do you say?

“I can hear you thinking,” said Jehan. He flipped his hand over and tangled his fingers with Grantaire’s. “You want to hear something?”

Grantaire nodded mutely.

“A light bulb cracked apart creates two boats. How bright to step inside the fire, the fire Prometheus stole so we could set the boats aflame. We go like moths; we all know moths are not worth saving. We don’t recognize that moths don’t want to be saved.”

Jehan turned his head away, but not before Grantaire saw a burst of vivid pain bloom across his face. “Are you alright?” Grantaire leaned forward, looking for the problem. “You need me to get the nurse?”

“Everything is poetry,” Jehan repeated, speaking over Grantaire’s concern. “Even the death of a friend.”

The tender scab that had been forming over the gashes in Grantaire’s heart tore away with Jehan’s words. He hadn’t known that Jehan was already aware of what happened the night he was taken; he’d been under the impression that Courfeyrac and Combeferre had decided not to tell him, in case it hindered his recovery.

“I know how this is going to sound before I say it, but I’ll say it anyway” Jehan said, his face still turned away. “It’s not fair. We’re the good guys. We stand up for truth and beauty. We do the right thing.” His voice broke and his chest heaved. Jehan had never been afraid of what he was feeling, even the awful things. “And this is our reward? It’s not fair.”

Grantaire walked to the other side of the bed and crouched down, his face level with Jehan’s. “No, it’s not fair. That’s sorta the point, I think.”

With a grunt and a shake of his head, Jehan looked at Grantaire with glassy eyes. The conversation was taking a heavy toll, and it was starting to show. They didn’t have much time left. “No one seems surprised but us. Not that they should be; it’s a fundamental law of nature. If you keep offering up your life on silver platter, sooner or later someone’s going to take it.”

When the nurse came in to fetch Grantaire, he touched his fingers to Jehan’s brow. He avoided looking at the mangled hand. It was an unwelcome reminder of all the things he didn’t want to think about.

Before Grantaire could reach the door, Jehan spoke on last time. “I get the feeling,” he said, “that this isn’t going to work out well for us.”

Grantaire looked over his shoulder. He wasn’t sure whether Jehan was talking about the two of them or Bahorel or the Friends or life in general, but he knew Jehan was right. When stars cross, things very rarely turn out for the best. “You’re starting to sound like me,” he said. “Get better soon. I’m here if you need me.”

 

* * *

 

Before going back to the safe house, Grantaire made a side trip to his own apartment. His breath, still coming hot and fast after the climb to his floor, turned white on contact with the freezing air inside. As he looked around, it hit him that nothing looked familiar anymore. In spite of his own stuff strewn over every available surface, the apartment felt like it belonged to someone else.

Grantaire rubbed his hands together, then brought them close to his mouth and exhaled noisily. Where were his gloves? He was pretty sure he’d left them somewhere in the apartment, but he’d learned long ago not to rely on his spotty memory.

“Christ,” he said to the empty room, watching as the tendrils of his breath curled toward the ceiling. “When did it get so fucking cold?”

Fortunately, there was one thing that never failed to warm him up, and he knew exactly where it was. He pulled a bottle of spiced rum from the cabinet over the sink and unscrewed the cap quickly. The liquid went down smooth and hot, thawing the ice in his chest and easing the pounding in his head at the same time. He stood in the kitchen, drinking straight from the bottle, until he felt the pleasant float of a good buzz.

“Right,” he said, setting the bottle in the sink. “Right.” Time to do what he came here to do.

He bent low and reached behind the two pieces of actual cookware he owned – a small pot he used to cook pasta and a cookie sheet he used for frozen pizza – until his fingers closed on the burner phone that Javert insisted he keep in his apartment for emergencies. Before he could think about it too much, he punched in Javert’s number and pressed the phone to his ear.

Grantaire chewed on his thumb nail as he waited for Javert to pick up. He’d put this off as long as he’d been able, but after seeing Jehan, the need to know his role in the events of the past few days had become too much.

“Javert speaking.” The officer’s gruff voice was as abrupt and demanding as ever.

“It’s Grantaire,” he supplied. His voice was steady, so that was something.

“Ah, Grantaire,” said Javert, his voice warming fractionally. “I must congratulate you. You’ve finally had some success.”

When Grantaire was young, he’d gone with his parents to visit his uncle’s farm in the country. On the farm was a good-sized chicken coop – about the same size as Grantaire’s current apartment – with a square passage cut into the side so the chickens could wander between the coop and a fenced-in enclosure in the yard. The passage had a heavy wooden gate that hung over it during the day and slid down at night. The gate was held up by stick jammed between the ground and the bottom of the gate.

One day, Grantaire had gone to feed the chickens when he noticed the gate was already down. When he went to investigate, he saw that the stick holding the gate up had been kicked out by one of the chickens; the gate had fallen, crushing the chicken’s neck.

Listening to the first words of praise Javert had ever given him, Grantaire couldn’t tell whether he felt more like the dead chicken or the gate that killed her.

“What?”

“I haven’t given you enough credit, boy,” Javert answered. “You finally penetrated the inner circle of the Friends. I didn’t think you had it in you.”

“So the information I gave you…” It was a struggle to finish the sentence. At least he’d had the good sense to drink before making the call. “The tip that something big was going down. That was useful?”

“Not as useful as I would have liked,” said Javert. “The prisoners still escaped. You did, however, give me the time to alert our more vulnerable facilities around the city that they may experience a security breach. Without the heightened watch level, I most likely would not have caught the break in at the Fournier house.

“Oh.”

“Don’t sound so disappointed, Grantaire. Surely, you know that we captured one of the criminals who infiltrated the facility.”

Grantaire gripped the phone tightly. “Caught? He’s alive?”

Javert’s laughter startled Grantaire so badly he nearly dropped the phone. He’d never heard Javert laugh before. “No. I had the criminal executed. It did send a strong message though, did it not? We will not stop until justice is served. The one left behind their clubhouse now – that wasn’t what I would have preferred, but persons more powerful than I made that decision.”

The one left behind their clubhouse. Jehan as the one left behind the clubhouse. If Javert had had his way, Jehan would be dead too. In the name of justice.

“And you weren’t working off any other leads?”

“None whatsoever,” said Javert. His tone was light, but his words landed like the fist of the gods. “Keep doing what you’re doing. You, your friend, and the street rat might make it out of this alive after all.”

Grantaire grunted an acknowledgement.

“Oh, and Grantaire? Good work with the Enjolras boy.” Grantaire could hear rustling as Javert shuffled some paper around. “You’re making your country proud. Talk to you in a week.”

The line went dead.

Grantaire threw the phone back into its cabinet and grabbed the bottle of rum from the sink.

 

* * *

 

A terrible pounding at the door roused Grantaire from a deep sleep. Or rather, it roused him from where he’d passed out on his futon.

“Grantaire!” The pounding continued, harder this time. “Open the door!”

Oh, God. He recognized that voice, that anger. It was Enjolras. The same Enjolras who he was supposed to meet-

Grantaire tilted his phone so he could see the screen and squinted until the numbers came into focus. Shit. It was already tomorrow. He’d been supposed to meet Enjolras yesterday, after seeing Jehan at the hospital. According to the little icon on the bottom of the screen, he had seventeen missed texts, eight missed calls, and four voicemails.

“Grantaire! Open up, now!” The yelling brought Grantaire’s attention back to the door. “Come on, Grantaire.” There was a short pause. “Please. Please answer.”

Ignoring his aching head and the nausea churning his stomach, Grantaire rolled off the futon and crawled a few feet toward the door. He didn’t want to see Enjolras. He didn’t want to see anybody, really, but especially not Enjolras.

After pulling himself up on the edge of the table, Grantaire went to the door, pausing only briefly to vomit in the sink. He opened the door just as Enjolras raised his hand to pound again.

“Oh my God,” said Enjolras. His face held an odd mixture of relief and horror. “What happened to you?”

Instead of answering, Grantaire left the door open and went back into the apartment. Behind him, he could hear Enjolras making a call and telling the person on the other end – Combeferre – that he’d found Grantaire.

“Seriously, Grantaire. What happened to you? You left the hospital and disappeared.” Enjolras shut the door, came inside, and leaned his hip against the tiny kitchen counter, watching as Grantaire downed a mug of water. “You look worse than usual. Is that vomit on your sweater?”

Grantaire looked down, wiping his chin with the back of his hand. He did indeed have puke on his sweater. It wasn’t an uncommon occurrence. He avoided Enjolras’ eyes and shrugged.

“Were you here this whole time?” Enjolras asked, scowling. “I thought you got picked up by officers. We’ve been looking for you for hours.”

Grantaire stumbled out of the kitchen and grabbed a few long-sleeved shirts off the pile of laundry closest to him. He chose the one that smelled the cleanest and shucked off his stained sweater, pulling the new shirt over his head. “You didn’t think to look for me at my apartment? You’re quite the detective.” The air was still freezing, so Grantaire picked up a jacket too. He threaded his arms through the sleeves, shivering.

“Of course I thought of your apartment, but I didn’t know where you lived. No one knew, except Eponine and Jehan. Since you weren’t answering your phone and Jehan is hurt, I had to wait for Eponine to text me your address.” Grantaire could tell that Enjolras was getting angrier by the second, but he was also trying to control it. He was trying to be patient with Grantaire, trying to understand. “Then I get here and see a half-empty bottle of rum on the ground. It doesn’t take a detective to figure out what you’ve been doing.”

Sure enough, the rum bottle was lying on the ground, half under the futon.

Enjolras came closer, stopping an arm’s length from Grantaire. “Is this about Jehan?” he asked, lowering his voice.

Grantaire shuddered and hoped his trembling could pass as shivering. Yes, this was about Jehan. It was about Bahorel too, and Enjolras. The truth was, Grantaire had no idea what to do. He didn’t know what was right or wrong, or how to fix what he’d done.

Javert’s words ran through Grantaire’s head for the thousandth time since the phone call ended. _Good work with the Enjolras boy_. Grantaire hugged his jacket tighter to his body and said nothing. When Enjolras reached out to touch him, he took a step back.

“Please, Grantaire. I thought we were past this,” said Enjolras. He left his hand up for a second before letting drop back to his side.

Grantaire opened his mouth but remained silent. He’d allowed himself to believe they were past it too. When he’d had Enjolras in his arms, when they’d kissed on the couch, when they’d fallen asleep next to each other, he’d allowed himself to believe that things could change. That he could be something other than what he was. That the world could be something else.

In the face of Grantaire’s silence, Enjolras’ anger was fading away, turning instead to confusion and hurt. “Grantaire.”  

A note of desperation had entered Enjolras’ voice. He was pleading. “Say something.”

Time. Grantaire needed time to figure out what to do, time to drink the rest of the rum, time to think. He couldn’t think when Enjolras was standing in his apartment, taking up all the space. “Why don’t you go back to the house? It’s dangerous for you to be out.” he said finally.

 The intensity Enjolras had when he’d arrived came back in full force. “Why don’t you tell me what the hell your problem is?”

On any other day, Grantaire would have snapped. He would have let Enjolras poke and prod him out of his numb fog and provoke him into a fight. He could even imagine what he would say: _My problem? What the hell is your problem? Is it me?_

From the look on Enjolras’ face, that was exactly the reaction he was expecting. The reaction he was hoping for, probably. In spite of their recent gains, confrontation was still a safe, comfortable fallback for the two of them.

He definitely wasn’t expecting Grantaire to ignore his challenge. “Go back, Enjolras. I’ll meet you there.”

Enjolras stared at him, lips pressed together. “Fine. Whatever. But I want a text every half hour. If you miss a text or if you’re not at the house by noon, I’m going to come back here and drag you out.”

He spun around and tried to storm out of the apartment, but tripped over a sneaker Grantaire had somehow kicked into the middle of the kitchen. Enjolras caught himself on the counter and looked over his shoulder. His eyes were wide, like he expected to see Grantaire laughing at his stumble.

When no laughter appeared, Enjolras righted himself and jerked the door open. “It’s not just about you,” he called, shooting one last arrow before he shut the door behind him.


	11. One Day More

Five days after his death, the Friends finally organized a memorial for Bahorel at the North side safe house. They were going to have it at the Musain – Bahorel often said the café felt more like home than his actual home, a sentiment shared by many in the group – but Combeferre had deemed it too dangerous to hold a large gathering at their old haunt. The North side safe house was their second choice.

Grantaire didn’t go.

It wasn’t like he was missing anything. Memorials were a frequent enough occurrence, and he knew how it would play out. Everyone would show up, timing their arrivals to avoid drawing the suspicion of the neighbors. No one would wear black, of course. This wasn’t a funeral, after all, but a celebration of life.

When everyone was present except for the hospital-bound Jehan, they would gather together in the front room, the same one where he’d been with Enjolras. Grantaire could see the scene when he closed his eyes. Cosette and Marius would be crying, and maybe Eponine and Joly too. Bossuet would have his arm around Joly’s shoulders. Courfeyrac would be biting the inside of his cheek, trying not to lose it. Feuilly would be standing by the window, staring into the distance. Combeferre would be sitting next to Enjolras, his eyes sad.

And Enjolras. Enjolras would feel everyone’s pain as if it were his own, and absolutely none of it would show on his face.

Then the stories would start. Funny stories, probably, and happy ones. Stories about what a good friend Bahorel had been. What a good person he had been. Stories about all the things Bahorel could have done, if only he’d lived.

“I have a story,” said Grantaire, speaking to himself and empty air.

Unwilling to stay in his own apartment for fear of Enjolras making a second impromptu visit, Grantaire had fled to the apartment of one of his old drinking buddies, a guy named Eric. Eric was vacationing on a beach somewhere – fucking rich kids and their goddamned tropical islands – and he’d said Grantaire could crash at his place, if he wanted.

The apartment itself looked like something out of a magazine, both sleek and modern, but Grantaire did not give two fucks about the decor. What he cared about was the fully stocked bar. Before Eric left, he’d sent a text that said, “Help yourself, dude _.”_ Not wanting to appear rude, Grantaire had done just that; Eric’s previously unopened bottle of Wild Turkey was no longer unopened.  

“I have a story,” Grantaire repeated, “about Bahorel.”

He tried to raise his glass to the vaguely human-shaped modern art piece on the corner, but lifting his arm was harder than anticipated. Maybe his difficulties were caused by the glass. It was one of those heavy ones with the thick bottoms that Republica bros liked to use to assert their masculinity. Then again, maybe his difficulties were caused by the copious amounts of alcohol he’d consumed. The two horses were neck and neck, really.

“So, the story is that Bahorel had this friend. He liked this friend and he trusted this friend. And the friend liked him. But unfortunately for Bahorel, the friend was also the worst piece of shit to ever walk the planet. And the friend did a stupid, stupid thing. And that stupid thing got Bahorel shot and drugged and thrown out of a plane.”

Grantaire leaned forward and pressed his cheek against the cool glass of the coffee table. He wondered what would happen if the table liquefied. Would he just fall in? Would he sink to the bottom and stay there, too heavy to make it back to the surface?

“The moral of the story,” he said, “is to never trust Grantaire.”

 

* * *

 

Grantaire didn’t leave the apartment for three days. The point wasn’t to abandon his friends – he was ready to admit that, yes, they were his friends, obviously – the point was to get some space. To think.

In a nod to practical responsibility, he sent a text to Eponine every day he was gone. No matter how much he drank, no matter how much he smoked, he never forgot. His friends didn’t need to worry about his safety on top of everything else. Plus, he wouldn’t put it past Enjolras to knock on every door in the city until he finally found the one Grantaire was hiding behind.

When he’d decided that one more day without human contact would drive him insane, Grantaire cleaned up his mess and sprinkled some extra food flakes into the aquarium.

He knew what he needed to do. He needed to tell the truth.

There was no other way. He refused to throw Eponine or that kid to the wolves, but he would die before he let another of the Friends fall to the consequences of his actions. He loved them all too much.

If he confessed though…if he confessed, then maybe the Friends could protect Eponine. Maybe they could help her flee the country. Get her to Cosette’s family. They could find that kid too, and help him. If anyone could pull it off, it would be the Friends.

As he rode the bus toward the safe house, Grantaire wondered why this plan hadn’t occurred to him before. It was the perfect solution. His life, of course, would be forfeit. After he told the truth, he would hold no value for the government. Javert was going to kill him, slowly and painfully, and proclaim it justice.

That is, Javert would kill him if Enjolras didn’t kill him first.

Grantaire stared out the bus window but didn’t see the bowls of flowers hanging from the streetlamps or the pro-military banners fluttering from the tops of buildings. He saw nothing, except the future. Enjolras was going to hate him. Detest him. _Loathe him_. His fury would be so great that Jehan would be forced to commemorate it with words, to record the terrible truth of it. Grantaire could almost hear it.

 

_You fell from the clouds –_

_mouth full of blood and rot._

_Mothers swore low and fled as_

_Enjolras kicked the stars from the sky._

Enjolras would be magnificent and merciless, and Grantaire would accept whatever punishment he, or any of the Friends, chose to impose.

Grantaire pulled the stop cord and floated off the bus. Now that the decision was made, he felt strangely empty. The conflicting emotions that had been warring inside him for the last few months were gone.

It was a cold, half-mile walk to the safe house from the bus stop. A light drizzle misted down from the gun metal gray sky, gathering like dew on Grantaire’s hair and eyelashes. It reminded Grantaire that winter wasn’t far off. The winter solstice, the longest night of the year, was only a couple months away.

Grantaire ran a finger along his eyes to knock the rain from his lashes. He wished it was snow. He loved snow, probably because it was so rare in this part of the world. It did snow sometimes, though, and sometimes it snowed on the solstice.

Time being a relative thing, only a few seconds passed before Grantaire was standing in front of the safe house. He knocked on the door in the code pattern Enjolras taught him that first night: two knocks – pause – two knocks – pause – three knocks.

Courfeyrac had the door open before Grantaire could put his hand down.

“Oh my God.” Courfeyrac grabbed Grantaire by the wrists and pulled him inside. After shutting and locking the door, he wrapped Grantaire in a bone-crushing hug. Grantaire was too surprised to hug back. “Oh, God. Where have you been?”

Feeling uncomfortable and a little shocked, Grantaire tried to pull away, but Courfeyrac was having none of it. “Quit squirming and just let me hold you for a sec. Christ, Grantaire. Please.”

Grantaire willed himself to relax and let his hands creep up to Courfeyrac’s shoulders. He and Courfeyrac had never been particularly close. While Grantaire appreciated that Courf was more laid back than most of the Friends, Courfeyrac spent too much time with Marius and Grantaire spent too much time with Eponine for them to have mixed much. They’d certainly never hugged before.

“I sent texts,” Grantaire said. The zen-like state he’d achieved on the way over was starting to fade. He needed to wrap this up.

“Oh, is that right? You sent texts?” Courfeyrac finally released him, only to cuff him over the back of the head. “You missed the memorial. We had no idea where you were or what you were doing, and Joly was saying all these things…” He trailed off as he finally got a good look at Grantaire. “Lookin’ a little rough there, man.”

Grantaire shifted uncomfortably, hyperaware that he’d been wearing the same clothes for days. “Is Enjolras here? I need to talk to him.”

Courfeyrac’s mouth formed into a circle, and his lit up with understanding. What he understood, Grantaire could only guess. “Yeah, he never leaves. Well, he left to get you that once, but that’s it. We agreed this is the safest place for me, him, and Combeferre until things cool down a bit.”

“Ok.” Grantaire looked around the hall, then back to Courfeyrac. “Where is he?”

“The extra bedroom upstairs. He put a desk in there so he could call it an office.”

With a nod and a small smile, Grantaire thanked Courfeyrac and headed for the stairs. He paused only for a moment, when Courfeyrac laid a hand on his shoulder.

“I’m not here to judge, or, God forbid, lecture,” Courfeyrac said, “and I’m over the moon that you’re here and that you’re safe. But if you ever do that again, I won’t be so forgiving. You’re one of us now. You can’t just disappear for days at a time.”

“I’m sorry,” Grantaire said, because he was. “I won’t do it again. I promise.”  

“I know. Just be glad it wasn’t Eponine who opened the door for you.” Courfeyrac gave Grantaire’s shoulder one final squeeze and backed off. “And be careful with Enj, yeah?”

Grantaire said nothing; that was not something he could promise. He nodded again instead and went up the stairs. They creaked under his feet as he walked.

The door to the extra bedroom was at the far end of the hall. It stood open, the warm light inside pooling on the dim floor of the hallway. When Grantaire looked in, his eyes went immediately to the shape hunched near the window.

Enjolras was asleep at a cheap particleboard desk. His head was pillowed on his folded arms, and his golden hair highlighted by the diffuse cloud-glow that had found its way through the blinds. His broad back was bent at an uncomfortable angle, stretching his dark green shirt tight across his muscles. When he woke up, it was going to hurt.

Grantaire hesitated in the doorway, wondering if he should come back later. Even asleep Enjolras looked exhausted, and Grantaire didn’t want to wake him. The problem was, if Grantaire didn’t do this now, he didn’t know if he’d be able to confess later. He was already losing his nerve.  

“Enjolras?” he called. He took a few hesitant steps into the room. “Enj?”

Enjolras woke with a jerk. In an instant, the softness his face carried in sleep was buried under the sharp angles of consciousness. “Grantaire?”

“Hey.”

Enjolras wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and stared at Grantaire, like he didn’t believe he was actually there. He stood up and walked past Grantaire toward the door. He closed it slowly, careful not to make any noise.

Then he walked toward Grantaire until they stood toe to toe. With almost painful tenderness, he took Grantaire’s face in his soft hands, lowered his head, and kissed him gently.

He lingered close after, his thumbs stroking across Grantaire’s cheekbones. “I’m sorry,” he said, his breath hot against Grantaire’s mouth.

Grantaire knew he should be move away, but he couldn’t. “What?”

“I’m sorry,” Enjolras repeated. He let go of Grantaire’s face and let his hands fall. A crooked, almost embarrassed smile crossed his face. “For when I went to your apartment. I made judgments and I acted like an ass. You have your ways of coping, and coping is better than not coping, at least in the short term. Survival is good, according to Cosette. We can work on the rest later.”

“What?” Grantaire felt broken, his mind skipping. Why was Enjolras being so nice to him? It was jarring when he’d prepared himself for the opposite.                                                 

The smile slipped off Enjolras’ lips and his brows drew together. “I only did it because I was worried about you. I’ve been worried these last few days too, but Eponine told me you needed space. That was right, right? You’re okay?”

“Uh.” Grantaire screwed his eyes shut and tucked his chin to his chest. Standing outside, everything had seemed so simple. Go into the safe house, find Enjolras, tell him the truth. Take his punishment. Standing a foot from Enjolras, nothing seemed simple. The calm certainty he’d felt was entirely gone. His heart was pounding so hard he could taste it. “I, uh…I have something to tell you.”

“Oh. Alright,” said Enjolras. He reached out tentatively to touch Grantaire’s hand. “But could you confirm you’re okay first? Just for my piece of mind? You’re scaring me a little.”

“Yeah,” he said. “I’m alive, and that’s better than some people I know. Can we sit?” He nodded his head at the bed still shoved against the back wall. Enjolras must not have seen the need to remove it when he brought in the desk, or else he thought it would be convenient to have a bed next to his desk. That did seem kind of pointless though, since Enjolras fell asleep at the desk anyway.

They both sat, close but not touching. An old, crocheted blanket with orange and brown starbursts was thrown over the bed. It felt scratchy under Grantaire’s fingers and smelled like cigarette smoke.

“I don’t want to fix you, you know,” said Enjolras. The words were quick and jagged. The silence forced them from Enjolras like blood from a stone. “In case you were wondering. There’s nothing wrong with you. Well, you as a person. I’m not wild about the risky behavior you engage in, but only you can change…”

Enjolras cut off abruptly when he saw the incredulous look on Grantaire’s face. “What I mean to say is I hope I haven’t driven you away. I hope you’re not about to tell me that kiss was a mistake. There are so many bad things happening, but I will argue with you all night if you try to tell me that kiss was one of them.”

It was on the tip on Grantaire’s tongue. It really was. The whole sorry story, from back to front, was right there, but Enjolras wouldn’t stop talking.

“I’m a difficult person. Please don’t hold that against me. I…” Enjolras picked up Grantaire’s hand and threaded their fingers together before looking at Grantaire’s face through thick lashes. “I need this right now. I need you.”

Not fair. Not fair. Not fair. Enjolras was not supposed to say those things. He was not supposed to look so goddamned gorgeous. Not when Grantaire was trying to tell him about the knife he’d shoved into his back.

“Unless you really don’t want to do this,” Enjolras babbled. Grantaire never understood how he could be so eloquent in front of a crowd and so rubbish when it was just the two of them. “I would never force you. Of course not. Enthusiastic consent in all things.”

“Why aren’t you saying anything?” Enjolras stood up, his hand sliding out of Grantaire’s. He paced half way across the room, made a noise of frustration, and pointed aggressively in the general direction of the stairs. “This is Courfeyrac’s fault. _Tell him how you feel, Enjolras. It’ll work out._ Why do I listen to him?”

“You haven’t heard what I have to say yet,” said Grantaire, interrupting Enjolras. “Come back here.”

Enjolras ran a hand through his sleep-mussed hair and returned to the bed. “Yes, sorry. You know I don’t do things by half measures.” He bit his lip and nodded at Grantaire, prompting him to continue. “What is it?”

Grantaire looked into Enjolras’ hopeful eyes, and, just like that, he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t tell him. Not yet, anyway. Call him a coward, call him a traitor. He just couldn’t.

“What I wanted to tell you,” he said lamely, “is that I need you too.”

Half of Enjolras’ mouth tilted into a smile, but the other half remained skeptical. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. I’ve thought about you a lot over the last few days. Like, _a lot_ , a lot,” Grantaire said. A half truth was better than no truth. Probably.

“So that’s what you’ve been doing,” said Enjolras.

“Among other things.” He’d tell Enjolras tomorrow. Definitely tomorrow. Not today. It wasn’t the right time. Enjolras looked _happy_. Wouldn’t it be selfish to take that away from him? Enjolras was never happy.

Grantaire would give Enjolras this one day. One day more.   

“Combeferre will be back from checking on Joly and the students in about,” Enjolras checked the time on his phone, “half an hour. When he gets here, we can fill you in on our plans to find the leak. Until then…”

Enjolras turned slightly to kiss the skin in front of Grantaire’s ear. Grantaire tried not to tense, but only couldn’t suppress the shiver that came with lips on sensitive skin. Enjolras’ smile morphed into a smirk. “Until then you can take a shower. I can’t control your behavior, but I can control mine, and I won’t be touching you again until you stop smelling like sweaty alcohol.” He patted Grantaire’s knee with one hand and used the other to pull a duffle bag of clothes from under the bed. “And change your clothes. You can wear some of mine.”

Grantaire did as directed without complaint or protest. Once in the shower, he scrubbed as quickly as possible; he didn’t want to be alone with himself for any longer than was strictly necessary. When he was clean, he stepped out and toweled off, avoiding the fogged mirror like his life depended on it.

Maybe it did. It was hard to tell these days.

The neatly folded clothes Enjolras had given him were on the toilet. He grabbed the shirt off the top of the pack. It was a faded gray t-shirt, made of thin, soft cotton. Enjolras wore it all the time.

Grantaire slipped the shirt over his head, and, for a moment, he felt better.

He put on Enjolras’ underwear next. That was weird, but he tried not to dwell on it. Then came the jeans. They were a touch too big for Grantaire, too loose in the waist and too long in the leg, but they felt alright. Not a perfect fit, but the best Enjolras had.

Grantaire gathered his soiled clothes and the wet towel together, and hurried back.

“You can put those in the hamper,” Enjolras said when Grantaire returned, pointing to a red mesh cylinder in the corner. He looked Grantaire up and down. “You look good.”

When they heard the front door open and Combeferre’s voice drift up the stairs, they both stood to leave the room together. At the top of the stairs, Enjolras held out his hand to Grantaire and gave him a significant look.

Grantaire stared back, confused. “What?”

“Hold my hand,” said Enjolras, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

 “What, in front of them?”

“Yes. I told you, I don’t do things by half measures.” Enjolras raised his eyebrows at Grantaire’s disbelief. “They’re going to find out sooner or later. May as well be sooner. No point in hiding the truth.”

A few bars of near hysterical laughter escaped from Grantaire before he could stop them. He took Enjolras’ hand they walked down the stairs and into the kitchen.

Courfeyrac and Combeferre looked up when Enjolras and Grantaire came in. Their eyes flicked between them and then down to their joined hands. Neither of them looked surprised.

“Hey,” said Enjolras. He pulled Grantaire farther into the kitchen, squeezing his hand reassuringly. “We have something to tell you.” 


	12. Lay Low

In the weeks that followed, lay low was the watchword.

The Friends, for example, were laying low. In the wake of the student rescue disaster, the dynamic trio had decided the safest course of action was to wait things out. Gatherings were cancelled. Recruitment was put on hold. No pamphlets were distributed, no sabotage was done. The group pulled in its limbs and vulnerable head, relying on a shell of anonymity for protection.

From where he was standing, Grantaire could see that their anonymity was just that: a shell. Still, a retreat from revolutionary activity could only be a good thing.

At the same time, Grantaire was laying low.

He’d tried to tell the truth. With every new day came renewed determination to confess his crimes, to tell Enjolras what he’d done, but every day he would look into Enjolras’ eyes and think, _tomorrow_.

Before he knew it, a month had passed. Fall came with a vengeance, obliterating the last dregs of summer and settling in with never-ending rain and familiar gusts of bitter wind. Grantaire knew from twenty-two years of living in a city situated between a young mountain range and an ocean that the rain wouldn’t stop until next summer. That suited his mood just fine.

In a way, those four weeks were the worst of his life. He wrestled with guilt so overwhelming that the emotion eventually sublimated into something that could no longer be called guilt. It was like touching ice; it was so cold it burned.  

In another, supremely unexpected way, however, those were the best weeks he could ever remember having. For the first time in his life, Grantaire had actual, honest-to-god feelings for a person who had actual, honest-to-god feelings for him.

It was a fucking revelation, and one that Grantaire had never expected to have.

With Enjolras, the devil was in the details. When he noticed that Grantaire was feeling particularly down, which was most of the time, he would never say anything. Instead, Enjolras – always a man of action – would _do_ things for Grantaire.

Grantaire remembered the first time it happened with uncomfortable clarity. It had been the day they’d told Courfeyrac and Combeferre that they’d decided to give it a go. Other than a wink from Courfeyrac, neither of their friends had made a big deal about their change in relationship status. In fact, they’d acted like they’d been expecting it.

Looking back, that was probably what had discomfited Grantaire the most. Why didn’t they care more? Why weren’t they protecting Enjolras? It didn’t make any sense, and the whole situation put him so on edge that he’d had to force himself to listen to his three companions make plans to ferret out the mole.

Not that any of their plans would work. The mole was helping to make the plans, after all.

Tension screwed itself so deep into Grantaire’s muscles that by the time the meeting ended he could barely sit straight. The feeling was uncomfortable it triggered a sense memory. A vision of his father chastising him for slouching over the kitchen table hit him between the eyes: _sit up straight Grantaire, or you’ll grow up to be pretzel_.

Too exhausted to do anything else, he’d taken a valium he’d found in Eric’s bathroom and fallen asleep on the bed in Enjolras’ room. When he’d woken, the sun had long since set, and Enjolras was typing at the desk. The dirty clothes he’d thrown into the hamper after his shower were stacked on the bed next to him in a neatly folded pile.  

“I did the laundry while you were asleep,” Enjolras had said. “I did some spot treatment to get out the stain on the front of the shirt. It kind of worked. I darned that hole in the back pocket of the jeans too.”

A little in awe of the amount of care Enjolras put into everything he did and even more in awe of the fact that Enjolras would direct that care at him, Grantaire had heaved himself off the bed and wrapped his arms around Enjolras from behind.

“I don’t deserve you,” he’d said.

Enjolras had turned his head and kissed him.

It had been a month of that. A month of Enjolras doing a hundred little lovely things, and Grantaire hated it and loved it in equal measure.

In the meantime, Courfeyrac, Combeferre, and Enjolras were coming up with plan after plan to find the source of the leak. Courfeyrac had come up with their latest endeavor, and the others were only entertaining the idea out of sheer desperation. At least Grantaire believed desperation was the reason Combeferre and Enjolras had agreed, because it was a shitty plan.

“Okay,” said Courfeyrac. They were back in the kitchen at the safe house, the Musain now being permanently off limits. The kitchen had become the Friends new hub of operations, which Grantaire had no beef with. “Here’s what we do. We feed everyone a seemingly important bit of information about an upcoming action. All of it will be fake, of course, but they won’t know that. Whichever fake action the officers show up to bust will lead us back to the leak.”  

Sometimes it was easy to forget that they were all just college kids with no real idea what they were doing. Everyone was so smart, after all, and the stakes were so damn high. At other times though, times like this, it was painfully, hauntingly obvious that they were figuring out what to do on the fly. Grantaire wanted to wrap them all in swaddling clothes and bundle them right out of the country.

“That sounds like something from a movie, Courf,” said Grantaire. He contributed by rote. Enjolras had spoken before about the role he had to play. Well, Grantaire knew what his role was, and he knew it would look suspicious if he didn’t provide his usual level of helpful critique.

“We have to do something,” said Enjolras.

“Whoever is doing this has to know that we’re onto him. Do you really think he’d fall into such an obvious trap?” Grantaire shook his hair out of his face. It was becoming unmanageable, but Enjolras had said he liked it long, so long it was going to stay.

“Why do you say he?” asked Combeferre. “It could be a she. Let’s not put on blinders.”

“Oh, come on! Don’t tell me you suspect Eponine. Or Cosette?” Grantaire scoffed. The idea was ridiculous.

“Calm down, Grantaire. No one’s making any accusations,” said Enjolras. He raised his hands, palms forward, in a placating gesture. It was a little rich, considering the source. “It’s impossible to think of any of us betraying each other, but the truth is that one of us is leaking information. We can’t rule anyone out.”

Courfeyrac nodded in agreement. “If we look at reality, either of them could be doing it. Eponine has her situation with Marius, and that’s only gotten worse since Cosette got here. And Cosette…we’ve known her how long?”

“About the same amount of time we’ve known Feuilly,” Grantaire retorted, offended on Eponine’s behalf. The idea that she would betray her friends because a boy didn’t like her _that way_ was, frankly, insulting. “Or me, for that matter.”

Combeferre stepped in, his stable presence smoothing over the cracks in their debate. “We’ll keep it on the table as something to consider. What we need to discuss is the unrest in the south.”

Ah, yes. Grantaire knew all about that. The workers at a garment facility near the southern border had finally had enough of their chains. In what turned out to be a suicidal move, they had seized the factory and barred the entrances. Perhaps believing it would make a difference, they had taken the factory manager hostage.

The factory was now a smoking crater in the ground. Like Etienne gave a shit about some random factory manager.

Success, though, could be measured in a variety of ways. While the workers had failed to make improvements to their own lives, the ripples of their actions were spreading. Rumbles were starting in other factories across the country, and the fervor for change was beginning to spread into other areas of labor.

Courfeyrac sighed dramatically, but allowed the change in subject. “I’ve been hearing things from the flower pickers,” he said, “and some other agricultural working groups in the south and the west. They’re pissed about the factory.”

Enjolras smiled tightly. “It was quite the practical demonstration of just how expendable Etienne considers his citizens to be. People are finally starting to notice. This feels like momentum.”

Enjolras looked at Grantaire like he expected argument, but Grantaire didn’t have one. Actually, Grantaire agreed with Enjolras. There was a feeling in the country, a feeling of forward motion. Something was brewing, and Grantaire was sure it would blow up in their faces.

He was also sure that Enjolras was going to be right in the middle of it, because Enjolras got off on this kind of stuff. Although he was careful to keep the proper amount of solemn dignity on his face as he spoke of the dead factory workers, the shine in his eyes betrayed him. He looked beautiful and savage at the mere prospect of insurrection.

Grantaire tried not to stare. Enjolras noticed Grantaire looking and the serious lines in his face softened into something much closer to a smile.

“Could you two stop ogling each other for thirty seconds, please?” asked Courfeyrac with a roll of his dark eyes. “We’re talking about revolution here.”

Enjolras laced his fingers together and rested his chin on the flat plane they created. “I know,” he said, his voice turning reverent. “Finally.”

 

* * *

 

When the meeting ended, Enjolras did not pass go, he did not collect two hundred dollars. He put his hand squarely on the small of Grantaire’s back and propelled him out of the kitchen, up the stairs, and into the extra bedroom.

Enjolras closed the door and turned sharply. “Can I ask you a question?” he said, his voice intent.

“Uh, yeah.” Grantaire tried to wipe the palms of his hands on his pants surreptitiously, but definitely failed.

“Why haven’t we been…” Enjolras ran his tongue over his top lip, then bit it, visibly searching his mind for the word he wanted. “…intimate?”

Grantaire nearly choked on his own spit. He’d been trying to cut back on his drinking – he was navigating perilous waters, after all – but as soon as the word _intimate_ left Enjolras’ mouth, he seriously started to reconsider. “What?”

“We’ve been together for a while now, and we kiss frequently. And that’s great!” Enjolras held up his hands again, like he’d done downstairs at the meeting. Grantaire wondered how he looked if Enjolras felt the need to gentle him like a panicked animal. “But I want…Grantaire, I want more. I’ve been taking it slow, giving you space because you were having a hard time, and if I’m out of line, please tell me. I want to be honest with you, though. It’s driving me a little bit crazy that we haven’t done anything you and Jehan haven’t done.”

It took a second for Grantaire to parse the different threads of Enjolras’ argument. Two points stood out: _I want more_ and _Jehan._

Grantaire decided to deal with the easier problem first. During the time Jehan had been in the hospital, Grantaire had visited him at every available opportunity. Unfortunately, between the hospital restrictions and the new security precautions the Friends we’re taking, those opportunities had been few and far between.

Now that Jehan was out of the hospital and living with Combeferre, regular visitation was no longer the risky proposition it had been. Grantaire went to see Jehan nearly every day. Enjolras never went with him.

At first, Enjolras’ absence had been a relief. Not wanting to hide anything more than absolutely necessary, Grantaire had wasted no time telling Jehan about Enjolras. Jehan, amazing supernatural creature that he was, had understood. He’d seen it coming before Grantaire had, after all, and he still wanted to be friends. It simply made it…easier…that they had a few weeks to figure out what was going on between them before throwing Enjolras back into the mix.

Yet, even after the adjustment period had passed, Enjolras still did not come.

“You don’t need to worry about Jehan, you know,” Grantaire said.

“I know.”

“Do you?” pushed Grantaire.

When Enjolras’ only reply was to clench his jaw, Grantaire narrowed his eyes. Enjolras needed his reassurance on a silver platter, apparently. “We should go see him. Together. He’s having a tough time and he needs the support of his friends.”

Enjolras cracked his neck, something he tended to do when he felt out of his depth. Needless to say, it was a rare occurrence. “Okay, yes. We’ll go,” he said finally, deciding to accept what Grantaire was giving him. “And the other part? The being intimate part?”

“Just to be clear,” Grantaire replied, making sure to enunciate clearly. “When you say intimate you mean sex, right?”

“Yes,” Enjolras said without hesitation. “Sometimes when we’re together it feels like we’re about to go further and then you pull back. I respect that. I just want to talk about it.”

A grimace wormed its way across Grantaire’s face before he could stop it. He’d hoped Enjolras wouldn’t notice his reluctance to take things to the next level. At the very least, he hoped Enjolras wouldn’t care. Evidently not.  

It wasn’t like Grantaire didn’t want to have sex with Enjolras. He really, really did. As in, he did not have the words to describe how much he wanted to have sex with Enjolras. The problem was, whenever they started to progress past the hot-make-out point, Grantaire would freeze up. Enjolras would slide his hand into Grantaire’s boxers and Grantaire would think of Jehan’s crushed hand, or Enjolras would start to unbutton his own pants and Grantaire would remember the last words he’d heard Bahorel say. Once that happened it was impossible to keep going.

Grantaire had no idea what to do about it, so he did nothing. Enjolras, on the other hand, was not a _do nothing_ kind of person. The head-on approach was the only approach Enjolras was capable of pursuing.

“I want to be close to you, yes,” said Enjolras. “This isn’t about me trying to get off. This is about the two of us.”

Grantaire knew that Enjolras was in earnest. Enjolras was _always_ in earnest. Still, he couldn’t have this conversation right now. He needed to deflect, and he knew from practical experience that the best way to derail Enjolras was to make him mad.

“So the fact that we’re having this discussion right now has nothing to do with the fact that you’re hard for a bunch of dead factory workers?”

The stunned silence that filled the room was sharp enough to slit throats.

When Enjolras finally spoke, he did not yell. Utter calm settled over him, a thin layer of ice over deadly cold water. “I cannot _believe_ you just said that.”

Grantaire had wanted to change the subject. Mission accomplished.

Enjolras looked to the side and shook his head, his beautiful lips curling into a sneer. “I don’t know why I bother. Once again, I am the only one here who gives a shit.” He turned to go.

A sudden spike of panic lanced straight through Grantaire’s chest. He didn’t want Enjolras to stay, but he wanted him to go even less. The paradox left him feeling sick.

“Wait!” Grantaire moved quickly, crossing the room and pushing the door shut with his palm before Enjolras could open it fully. Enjolras’ eyes widened with fierce anger, but Grantaire didn’t care. He had to keep him here. He had to keep him. “I didn’t mean it.”

Enjolras turned to face Grantaire, which put his back against the door. He hadn’t let go of the doorknob. “Then why did you say-”

Grantaire cut him off with a desperate kiss. It was too hard and wholly unsatisfying, but it did what it was intended to do. Enjolras let go of the door.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Grantaire repeated the phrase over and over into the skin of Enjolras’ neck. His hands clutched the front of Enjolras’ shirt, the soft fabric bunching around his fists. “Don’t go.”

“This is fucked, Taire. This is completely fucked,” said Enjolras. Anger still dominated his tone, but Grantaire could hear confusion and relief mixed in as well.

Grantaire squeezed his eyes shut and pressed another kiss into the side of Enjolras’ mouth. Enjolras wasn’t going to leave. Enjolras wanted to be stopped.

“I know,” said Grantaire, his voice rough. “I’m sorry. For everything.”

Grantaire slid his left hand up into Enjolras’ hair and pulled him down into another kiss. He took his right hand and slid it down against the front of Enjolras’ jeans.

“Let me show you,” Grantaire breathed. He could do it like this, when Enjolras wasn’t being so horrifically nice.

Enjolras shuddered through his next breath. It sounded painful. “I was trying to do this the right way,” he said.  

Grantaire pulled Enjolras to the bed and laid him down on crocheted yarn. “I know. I’m sorry.” He fished Enjolras’ bottle of lubricant from the nightstand drawer without ever taking his eyes from Enjolras’ face. “I’m so sorry.”

He crawled onto the bed and pulled Enjolras’ pants and underwear down his thighs. The sound of the bottle clicking open should have been loud, but was lost beneath the harsh sound of their breathing. Grantaire rubbed his hands together, warming slick liquid with friction.

Leaning down, Grantaire kissed Enjolras as he took him in his hands. Enjolras wasn’t completely hard yet, but he was getting there fast. This wasn’t going to take long.

After a few minutes of kisses and labored breathing, Enjolras laid his long fingers on Grantaire’s hands, stilling them. “Kleenex on the desk,” he said.

With a nod of understanding, Grantaire retrieved the tissue and started again. He twisted his hands, quick and deliberate.

Enjolras came into the tissue with a sharp intake of breath. He closed his eyes briefly, then opened them and looked into Grantaire’s eyes. “I’ve imagined that happening a hundred times.”

The tissue was sticking to Grantaire’s hands. He needed a wash, but first he needed to clean Enjolras. “Was it how you’d imagined?”

Enjolras leaned back and looked at the ceiling. “No.”


	13. Escalation

Escalation: a fundamental law of the government-military-industrial complex. The dissidents, the rebels, the insurgents, the terrorists – whatever the preferred nomenclature of the ruling party happens to be – come at you with words, and you go at them with guns. They, in turn, pick up guns, and you can’t let that stand, so you bust out your tanks. This goes on and on and on until one or both sides are ash.

The story was ancient, even if the characters were new.

At first, Grantaire didn’t realize what was happening. The incidents seemed isolated. A few disappeared university students here, a few murdered nuns there. For a military dictator like Etienne, that wasn’t escalation; it was upkeep. Casual murder and arbitrary punishment were nothing more than the quotidian activities necessary to maintain the fear of the populace.

The response to the government’s cruelty was noticeable but hardly surprising. Groups like the Friends, led by people like Enjolras, started to crop up with, as it seemed to people like Etienne and Javert, alarming frequency. These groups met behind locked doors. Their members whispered to each other of injustice and started underground, anti-government publications. People like Grantaire took note of their existence and dismissed them as rogue idealists searching for Shangri-la.

Etienne, however, did not dismiss them; obsessive paranoia was the hallmark of the leader who ruled through fear. Anything he did not directly control was his potential destroyer. He saw these people who were using words as weapons and went after them with guns and sedatives and open airplane doors.

Then a group of factory workers in the south decided to take the next step in the cycle. They seized their factory in an effort to disrupt the production lines that kept the military in money. The workers called it human rights. Etienne called it economic terrorism. He ordered a drone strike and thirty minutes later, all of the workers were dead. He ordered his officers to _clean up the loose ends_ and by the end of the day, all the workers’ families were dead.

That was escalation. Enjolras, though, liked to call it momentum.

Grantaire wondered if it was momentum that had made a group of poor apple pickers in the east take up whatever weapons they could find and kill the wealthy family who owned the orchards they picked in. He wondered if it was momentum that led other apple pickers in the area to take up their own weapons and join in. If it was momentum that pushed them into taking over three of the local towns and demand independence from Etienne’s violent regime.

Because it was definitely escalation that caused Etienne to declare a blockade on the apple pickers. No planes, trains, or automobiles were to enter the eastern agricultural sector. Bullets were too quick, he said. 30,000 people lived in the eastern agricultural sector, and Etienne wanted to starve them to death. Slowly. He wanted to make an example.

The Friends, of course, could not stand idly by and let that happen, which is how Grantaire found himself in the passenger’s seat of a 4x4 at five in the morning, ready to run a military blockade. Feuilly was in the driver’s seat, and the rest of the truck was packed full of rice, flour, and protein bars.

Grantaire held a matte black 9mm Sig Sauer P226 loosely in his right hand. Courfeyrac had pressed it on him before he’d closed the door, insisting that it was better to have a gun and not need one than vice versa. Grantaire wasn’t sure, considering he had exactly zero training with the thing. He would probably shoot himself before he shot anyone else.  

The gun felt like inevitably in his grip.  

Grantaire and Feuilly’s 4x4 was part of a small convoy of vehicles smuggling food into the agriculture sector that morning. The plan was the same as it had been the last three times they’d done this; cross into the blockaded region via an old, overgrown trail that ran through one of the larger apple orchards. The officers knew about most of the ways into the sector, but it was impossible for them to know them all. The orchards were a labyrinth, crisscrossed in a hundred different directions by a hundred different man made paths.

The military wasn’t terribly bothered that they couldn’t guard every single way through the blockade. In the grand scheme of things, the little paths didn’t matter much. The road the Friends were using, for example, was way too small to facilitate the transport of enough food to feed 30,000 people.  

Just because the officers weren’t bothered didn’t mean they wouldn’t kill any smugglers they came across on their random patrols. Not for the first time, Grantaire took a moment to wonder at how his life had come to this.

Judging by the way he shifted uncomfortably in his set, Feuilly seemed to be similar thoughts. “Nervous?” Grantaire asked as Feuilly checked his phone for the fifth time in as many minutes.

Although he didn’t jump, Feuilly’s eyes shot up to meet Grantaire’s with a nervous energy Grantaire didn’t usually associate with the red-haired man. Feuilly was as firm in his convictions as Enjolras; he never faltered, never doubted. He must be feeling the strain something fierce if his normal aura of righteous confidence was starting to crack.

“Can you blame me?” Feuilly responded. His left leg was jittering under the steering wheel. “Just be ready with that gun.”

Grantaire raised his eyebrows. Even after months of working together, he wasn’t sure if he actually liked Feuilly. He had a propensity for violence that could leave Grantaire feeling cold. Enjolras was the same way, sometimes, and Grantaire hated it. “You know something I don’t know?”

“Of course not.” Feuilly trained his eyes on the road. Only a small portion was visible in the 4x4’s headlights. The walkie in Grantaire’s lap crackled to life and Combeferre came over the line, giving the signal to move. “I’m just saying. Keep an eye out.” He twisted the key in the ignition and put the vehicle into drive.

Like their previous expeditions, the drive into blockaded territory was tense but uneventful. They made it to the rendezvous point, a clearing at the edge of the apple orchard, without incident. Grantaire gripped the gun tighter and jumped out of the truck.

Cold, wet air flooded Grantaire’s lungs as he stood in the dark and waited for Combeferre to tell him what to do. The sun had risen, but the light wasn’t strong enough to penetrate the layers of cloud and fog between the sun and the ground. It left the scene dimly illuminated in eerie gray light.   

Combeferre conferred with the agricultural workers who’d come to pick up the food, and then turned to Grantaire and Feuilly. “Can you two watch the main road? Just walk a little ways up and use the walkie if you see anything coming.” Combeferre was in charge of this run; he, Enjolras, and Courfeyrac were taking turns because they didn’t want to put all the Friends leaders at risk at the same time.

Grantaire nodded and moved toward the road, but stopped when he noticed Feuilly wasn’t coming with him.

“It doesn’t take two of us to keep watch, does it?” Feuilly asked. He scuffed his foot in the dirt, and cleared his throat. “I think I should help with unloading and loading the supplies. We need to be faster than we’ve been the last couple times.”

Combeferre looked between the three trucks full of supplies they’d brought and the empty vehicles the workers had driven. He sighed and nodded. “Only if Grantaire’s okay with it,” he said.

“Oh, yeah. That’s fine,” Grantaire agreed quickly. He wouldn’t mind taking the watch on his own. That way he wouldn’t have to spend the entire time hiding with Feuilly. “I’d like to think I can work a walkie by myself.”

“If you’re sure,” Combeferre said. “We’ll call when we’re finished.”

“Yeah.” Grantaire accepted a small flashlight from Combeferre and patted the walkie in his pocket. “No worries.” He smiled sardonically at Feuilly. “I’ve always been a lone wolf type.”

When he’d walked about a quarter mile, Grantaire veered into a stand of bushes on the side of the road and settled in. The bushes he chose weren’t the same bushes he was supposed to be hiding in – those were on the other side of the road – but these were thicker and darker. In other words, more to Grantaire’s liking. The other bushes were dryer, but, for once, it wasn’t raining.

Time passed slowly. Grantaire counted the seconds as they ticked by, making a game of counting out exact minutes in his head. The road remained clear of headlights and the orchard held nothing but the sound of birds.

There was nothing, that is, until Grantaire heard two soft pops and then the sound of rock cracking. He whipped his head toward the sound. It had come from across the road. He saw a piece of rock roll from the stand of bushes he should have been hiding in.

With as little noise as he could manage, Grantaire dropped to his belly, his gun trained on the stand of bushes. Branches and leaves obscured his view, but he dared not move them. He dared not breathe. He certainly couldn’t reach for the walkie.

Adrenaline coursed through his veins, sending his heart into overdrive. Grantaire could hear the rustle of leaves, the cracking of twigs. There was someone in the orchard and they were walking toward the road.

Grantaire fought not to blink as a shape materialized between the trees. An officer. Maybe some random patrol? But if that were the case, why would there only be one officer? They always patrol in pairs. Perhaps the other officer was somewhere in the orchard, too far away for Grantaire to see through the foggy dark.

The officer had his gun in front of him, a silencer screwed on the long barrel. He poked his head into the stand of bushes, obviously looking for something. When he didn’t find it he expanded his search to the surrounding bushes, examining the ground carefully.

Grantaire watched in silence as the officer looked up and down the road. When he didn’t see anything, the man shook his head, grimaced, and started to walk back into the orchard.

He was leaving. He was leaving, and Grantaire was still alive.

All he had to do now was wait five, maybe ten minutes. Wait until the officer was far enough away that he couldn’t hear Grantaire moving. Then Grantaire could use the walkie, go back to the clearing, and get the fuck out before the military came down on all their heads.

Grantaire started to count seconds. The officer was walking away.

He’d made it to nine when his walkie burst to life with an obnoxiously loud burst of static. Grantaire twisted where he lay on the ground, trying desperately to get the walkie out of his pocket, to turn it off.  “We're done, Taire. You can come-” Grantaire jerked the walkie from his pocket and turned it off, cutting Combeferre off midsentence.

The damage was already done. The officer would have had to be deaf to have not heard that.

Grantaire shot to his feet as the first bullet embedded itself into the tree trunk next to his head with a dull _thunk_. Run. That’s all he could think to do, all he was capable of. He turned and ran back in the direction of the clearing, the officer hot on his heels.

The officer shot again. He missed. Grantaire kept running. He could feel the blood coursing through his body. He felt his lungs burn as he gasped for air. Flat, wet leaves slapped his face, but he dared not slow to push the branches away with his hands. Fallen, rotten apples squished under his feet, tripping him up.

The officer shot again. This time he didn’t miss. Grantaire felt a terrible burning on the outside of his left thigh, like someone was pouring boiling water over branded flesh. He crashed into the ground, his face scraping along the fragrant dirt of the orchard floor.

Time slowed down. Flight was no longer an option. Grantaire remembered that he too had a gun.

Grantaire pushed with his arms, flipping himself onto his back. The officer was close. He was young – probably around Grantaire’s age – but unlike Grantaire, this man was also a soldier.

Before he could think himself out of it, Grantaire pointed his weapon at the officer and fired. The Sig held ten rounds. Grantaire shot every one of them. When the chamber was empty, the officer was no longer standing.

For a few endless seconds, Grantaire remained where he was. Except for the sound of his own harsh, shallow breathing, everything was silent. He couldn’t even hear the birds.

After he regained the use of his higher order brain functions, the first thing Grantaire did was check his leg. Once the initial burst of searing pain had subsided, the whole area had gone numb. He was sure he was in for a world of hurt when the adrenaline wore off.

Steeling himself mentally, Grantaire looked down. There was barely any blood. Like, he’d seen more blood come out of a paper cut. With a frown of confusion, Grantaire ripped a wider hole in his jeans and squinted his eyes at the wound. There was a long furrow the width of a bullet the started at the front of this thigh and ended at the back. Blood oozed from the scrape in a sluggish flow that in no way matched the amount of pain Grantaire had felt when the wound occurred.

A graze. It was just a graze.

Hands shaking, Grantaire shoved the empty gun into his pocket and used the closest tree trunk to pull himself to his feet. He urged his feet to take him, one uneven step at a time, to the spot where the officer had fallen. He had to check.

The officer lay on the ground, arms akimbo, blank eyes fixed on the dark gray sky above.  

The ghost had fled the machine. The man was dead. Grantaire wasn’t sure how many times he’d hit him or where, but the pool of blood around the officer’s body was expanding steadily, embracing leaves and pock-marked apples as it moved.

Grantaire left the man where he fell. He ran toward the clearing and didn’t look back.

 

* * *

 

The first time Grantaire was alone with Enjolras after the shoot out in the apple orchard, they spent the first few minutes sitting next to each other and not saying anything. They were back in the extra bedroom – now known exclusively as Enjolras’ bedroom – and both of them were side by side on the bed. The crocheted blanket was still there. Grantaire wondered why Enjolras kept it.

Enjolras opened and closed his mouth several times before he finally spoke. “Explain to me what happened.”

“Combeferre already told you what happened.”

Enjolras glanced at Grantaire out of the corner of his eye. His lips were pressed together in annoyance. “I want to hear it from you.”

Grantaire sighed deeply. He’d already told this story countless times, once to every person he’d come into contact with since it happened. He was sick of it. “I was on watch about a quarter mile up the road from the drop site. I was hiding in some bushes on the side of the road. I was there for about thirty-five, maybe forty minutes when I heard a couple gunshots. An officer came out of the trees, he heard my walkie, and he shot at me. I shot back, I killed him, and I ran back to the clearing.”

“Only one officer?”

“That’s what I said.”

“Why did he shoot first if you weren’t in those bushes?”

As sick as Grantaire was of telling the story, he was even sicker of answering questions he didn’t know the answer too. “Jesus, Enj. I don’t fucking know. Feuilly and I kept watch together the other two times, and we always stayed in that location because it had better cover from the rain. Maybe the guy knew.”

“If he knew, that means the leak is back in play.”

Grantaire knew that wasn’t the case. Since Bahorel, Grantaire hadn’t given Javert anything remotely helpful. “Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe they’ve been watching us.”

“Bullshit.” Enjolras ran his hand over Grantaire’s thigh, right over the bandage that covered the graze wound. Grantaire flinched. “I know you like to test me, but not even you can believe that. The officer was there to kill you, you and Feuilly. Two bullets.”

Enjolras wrapped his arms around Grantaire and pulled him into a warm embrace. “You could have died,” Enjolras said quietly. He stroked Grantaire’s unruly hair, and Grantaire allowed his eyes to fall shut. It felt good to be soothed. “He could have killed you.”

“But he didn’t,” said Grantaire. He rubbed circles into Enjolras’ back over the top of his sweater. Enjolras needed soothing too.

“No, he didn’t.” Enjolras pulled back enough to look Grantaire in the eye. “Because you killed him first.”

Grantaire had wondered when this was going to come up. Better to get it over with now.

Enjolras laced their fingers together, joining their hands between their bodies. “Are you okay?” asked Enjolras. “The question is trite, I know, but I don’t know how else to ask. You _killed_ a person and you haven’t said a word about it.”

Grantaire bit the inside of his cheek as he considered what to say. The truth was, he didn’t feel bad about killing the officer. He didn’t feel much of anything. It was such a change from the overwhelming grief and despair he still felt over his role in Bahorel’s death that he didn’t know what to make of it.

What kind of person was he that he didn’t care if he shot another human being to death?

“No, no, don’t you go there,” said Enjolras, laying his hands on the side of Grantaire’s face. The edge of command in his voice brought Grantaire back to the present. “I can see you thinking. Don’t think. Listen to me. This wasn’t your fault, Grantaire.”

“But-”   

“No buts. This wasn’t your fault. None of it.” He splayed his hands across Grantaire’s round cheeks and pinned him down with his most earnest stare. Whatever he was going to say next, he wanted Grantaire to _believe_. “You’re a good person. The best person. I love you.”

It was funny how those words hurt more than the bullet had.


	14. Too Late Now

Etienne’s forced famine was the last straw. By the time the first victim was buried – an elderly woman who’d been giving what little food she had to her pregnant granddaughter – there was no turning back. For better or for worse, revolution was coming.

The news, when it arrived, was anticlimactic. The Friends took it in stride, devoting themselves to the task at hand with same ferocious efficiency and clarity of purpose they brought to every action they planned. If there was a difference, it was the electricity that pulsed beneath the simplest tasks the Friends performed.

Everyone knew this was what they’d been waiting for.

As a result, Grantaire wasn’t surprised when he heard the day Enjolras and the other resistance leaders had chosen for the fight: December 21, the longest night of the year. He understood that symbolism was important, especially to the oppressed. When those with little power choose to stand against those with too much power, finding meaning in the mundane became an essential means of motivation. In this case, the meaning was simple; the night is darkest just before the dawn. Fight today for a brighter tomorrow.

Personally, Grantaire thought it was too on the nose, but no one asked him.

In the weeks leading up to the big day, Enjolras was a blur of continuous motion. He met with group after group, hammered out supply line logistics, and organized weapon drops. His optimism was contagious, infecting everyone he came in contact with. The strength of his belief was so overwhelming that Grantaire was nearly swept up in it along with everyone else.  

Nearly.

“Enjolras, listen. This isn’t going to work.” Grantaire scrubbed his hands over his cheeks, but the motions were slow and uncoordinated. Perhaps the news of actual armed rebellion was anticlimactic, but it was also stressful. Grantaire had been relying heavily on his flask. “We’re not ready.”

“According to you, we’ll never be ready,” said Enjolras. He was at the safe house for once; Combeferre had sent him back to rest after he’d fallen asleep standing up during a planning meeting. He was lying on the bed now, throwing a rubber ball into the air while Grantaire sat at the desk. “The people are ready to rise up. We may never get this opportunity again. It’s now or never.”

Grantaire hid his face in his hands. No matter how many times he had this argument with Enjolras – and by now, they’d had this argument at least a hundred times – nothing changed. “You’re underestimating Etienne. You don’t realize how powerful he is. How far his reach extends.”

Enjolras sat up on the bed, his legs crossed under him. “No. You’re underestimating the people,” he said. It was night and the blinds on the window were drawn. The warm, orange light from the lamps lit Enjolras’ exhaustion, softening his sharper angles. “I don’t get why you’re so against this. Isn’t this why you joined the Friends in the first place? It seems weird that you’d work so hard just to bail in the home stretch.”

“It’s just…” Grantaire searched for something true to say. He had to make Enjolras understand. “You’ve never failed. Not once. You’ve always been the smartest, the most eloquent, the best looking. And I know from experience that you always get your way. It’s like you can’t even conceive of failure as an option.”

Enjolras tilted his head, considering Grantaire’s words. A frustrated furrow chiseled itself between his brows. “That’s not true. I don’t always get what I want.”

“You know what I mean,” said Grantaire. He snatched a pen off the desk and started to click the top. “You see the world a certain way because of who you are. Well, I’m the opposite. I’m a failure. I get that sometimes wanting something isn’t enough, even if you want it so much you feel like you’re going crazy. I understand that sometimes doing your best isn’t enough.”

The feel of a rubber ball hitting him in the arm drew Grantaire’s attention away from the pen. “You’re not a failure,” Enjolras protested. “And stop clicking that.”

Grantaire threw the pen down. “Whatever. The point is, if this goes down people will die. That’s the price. And we’ll all pay it, whether Lamarque is in power when your revolution is over or not. Is it worth it?”

Enjolras unfolded himself from the bed and came over to kneel in front of Grantaire. His hands were on either side of Grantaire’s legs, gripping the seat. “I’m not as naïve as you seem to think I am. I’m well aware of the price,” he said softly. “Or do you think I’d forget Bahorel so quickly?”

“Of course not.”

“Good,” Enjolras continued. “Because we’re doing this for him and all the people like him who’ve suffered under Etienne. Great change requires sacrifice. So, yeah, it’s worth it.”

In the face of Enjolras’ intensity, Bahorel’s death and Jehan’s hand weren’t the tragedies they appeared to be. They were transfigured into unfortunate stepping stones, blood sacrifices on the altar of the greater good. The problem was, Grantaire didn’t give a shit about the greater good.

“But what about you,” he said, gripping Enjolras’ wrists with his hands. He made no effort to move them, merely held them. “What if you die? How is that worth it?”

Enjolras answered by kissing him gently. Grantaire tried to pull back, but Enjolras pursued him, putting more weight on his hands as he leaned forward. Finally he released Grantaire and fell back to his knees. “Just trust me, alright?”

The sound of Grantaire’s zipper opening under Enjolras’ hand made Grantaire’s eye twitch. “Trust me,” said Enjolras. He reached into his own back pocket and pulled out a condom. “Please?”

Grantaire tried one last time. “What about the spy?”

“I’ve got it covered,” said Enjolras. He held up the condom, eyes wide with false innocence.

Grantaire coughed up a broken laugh, and Enjolras’ innocent face fled before a wicked a smile. “Jesus Christ.”

“Seriously, Grantaire. Don’t worry. We have plans. Big plans,” Enjolras motioned for Grantaire to lift himself up. Grantaire obeyed, giving Enjolras room to pull his pants down his thighs. “And I have big plans for you tonight. Strawberry flavored plans.”

Ever since Grantaire had broken the ice with the most depressing hand job ever, he’d noticed that almost all his and Enjolras’ arguments ended in sex. Usually the sex was initiated by Enjolras, though sometimes Grantaire would take a turn, if only to make Enjolras stop talking.

“Relax,” said Enjolras. He used some of their night stand lubricant – the bottle was almost empty now – and worked Grantaire with his hand until he could roll on the condom. “Relax.”

As Enjolras lowered his head to take Grantaire into his mouth, Grantaire tried to do as Enjolras said. He tried to relax. He nearly succeeded.

Nearly.

 

* * *

 

The next day, Grantaire took the bus to his apartment to gather the few things he owned. Not that it was his apartment anymore. He was almost never there, except when he wanted to drink in peace, and he hadn’t paid his rent this month. With everything that was happening, something as mundane as paying the rent hadn’t seemed relevant.

Oh, well. He hated this place anyway. Good riddance.

Grantaire let himself in, still out of breath from the four floor climb, and shook open the extra large garbage bag he’d brought from the safe house. Satisfied with the sharp sound of the plastic, Grantaire snapped the bag again. Then he grabbed his other pair of shoes – he only had two pairs; what point was there in having more than he needed? – from their place near the door and tossed them in.

Seventeen minutes. That’s how long it took him to throw all of his earthly possessions into one thin, black garbage bag.

First in were his clothes: socks, underwear, a handful of dirty shirts, a couple pairs of pants with holes in the knees, an extra jacket. Next in was his shit from the bathroom. That only amounted to one toothbrush with pokey bristles, a travel sized tube of mint toothpaste, a pink disposable razor he’d stolen from Eponine, and a bar of cheap soap that broke in half when Grantaire touched it.

After that came the liquor. A half-empty bottle of vodka went in the bag, as did the two bottles of mid-shelf Riesling he’d been saving for Jehan’s birthday. The bottle of rum he found under the futon was about to go in too, but never made it out of Grantaire’s hand.

This was the eve of a revolution. The occasion deserved to be celebrated.

Finally, when the plastic bottle was empty and spinning in the corner, Grantaire added the few things he actually cared about. He put in a couple of his favorite books first, though none of his school books. Like many of the Friends, Grantaire had stopped going to classes months ago; unlike many of the Friends, however, Grantaire was certain he would never go back.

He also put in the tiny statue of the fat, smiling Buddha that Joly had given him, his pot and his cookie sheet, a framed picture of Eponine, and Jehan’s poems. They disappeared into the garbage bag one by one, and Grantaire smiled as he held them.

Then there was only on unpacked item left, and Grantaire wasn’t smiling anymore. The burner phone. The one he’d thrown back under the sink after his calamitous conversation with Javert.

Grantaire stood in silence, considering the phone as it sat before him on the kitchen counter. He hadn’t confessed. He’d tried so many times, but he’d never been able to force the words past his chapped lips.

At first he’d told himself that he kept quiet because of Enjolras. As the weeks passed, he’d come to realize that he’d kept quiet for himself. It wasn’t even that he didn’t want to lose Enjolras, although that had been a big part of it. It was that he didn’t want to lose any of it. He didn’t want to feel lonely again or hopeless all the time.  

Selfishness. That’s all it was, really. As soon as everything was over, he would tell them.

And who knew. There was a good chance he would die in the near future and his cowardice wouldn’t matter. Justice would be served, and he wouldn’t have to burden his friends with the truth.

With a shrug of his shoulders, Grantaire flipped the phone open and broke it in half.

 

* * *

 

He tripped for no apparent reason on the walk from the street to the safe house door. There may have been more rum left in the bottle than he’d thought; such things could be difficult to measure when you were drinking straight from the bottle. The lumpy garbage bag touched the wet ground but didn’t split open.

Grantaire straightened, shook himself, and opened the door. They weren’t bothering with knocks this close to the end. Too many people were coming and going in the run up to tomorrow’s pre-dawn insurrection.

He went inside and dumped the garbage bag in the corner by the stairs. No one popped their head out of the living room or the kitchen to say hello. In fact, the house was oddly quiet. No voices could be heard, no footsteps sounded on the ceiling from people padding around upstairs.

“Hello?” he called. “Anyone here?”

After another beat of silence, Combeferre’s voice floated into the hall. “Could you please come to the kitchen, Grantaire.”

Grantaire breathed out in relief and walked to the kitchen. He misjudged the distance between his body and the doorway as he crossed into the room and banged his shoulder against the wall. As he rubbed his shoulder, he took in the scene that waited for him in the kitchen.

Combeferre and Courfeyrac were sitting at the table, equidistant from each other, their hands folded identically in front of them. Enjolras stood behind them, leaning against the corner formed by the cabinets. While Combeferre and Courfeyrac met his eyes, Enjolras’ gaze remained fixed on the floor.

“Where is everyone?” Grantaire asked, his head turning between the three men before him. “This place was a madhouse when I left this morning.”

Combeferre continued to look at him, expressionless, and Courfeyrac brought a thumb up to his mouth so he could bite at the nail. Enjolras went from staring at the floor to staring out the window.

Grantaire took a moment to take stock of exactly how much he’d had to drink. He waved his hand from side to side in front of his face. “Can you hear me? Or am I hallucinating?”

“No. None of us are hallucinating,” said Combeferre. “And we’re alone here because we asked everyone else to leave.”

“What? Why?” asked Grantaire.

Combeferre and Courfeyrac exchanged a guarded look before Combeferre gestured to the chair opposite his. “Have a seat, please.”

And just like that, Grantaire knew what was going on.

Whatever the ties were that had bound Grantaire together since the night he’d fought the officers snapped apart as if cut by Atropos herself. Suddenly unmoored, Grantaire found himself swaying from side to side like a lone buoy tossed about on a stormy sea; he was floating and drowning at the same time.

There was no ceremony when Grantaire took his seat. The earth was splitting like an onion all around him, coming undone in layers. He set his elbows on the table and rubbed his eyes because disbelief is not a crime, but when the whirling colors left his vision, nothing had changed.

They knew.

“Feuilly came to us today,” said Combeferre. His voice was grave and even. “He’s worked with a lot of activists organizations, you know. Has a lot of contacts. Well, one of his contacts knows someone who knows someone. That someone has an in at the officers' headquarters. That someone gave us this.”

A jump drive was sitting on the table next to Combeferre’s left hand. He touched it gently with the pad of one finger.

“And on the drive, we found this.” Combeferre reached into the backpack at his feet and pulled out a thick folder. With a flick of his wrist, he opened the folder and spread the pages across the table like a deck of cards. “He thought we should know. Considering the circumstances.”

Grantaire looked down. His own face stared back at him, bloodied and bruised as it had been the night he’d met Javert. Also staring at him were logs of his phone calls with Javert. Maps tracking his movements within the organization. Reports on his relationships with different members of the Friends.

Words jumped out at him from random pages. Words like _government asset_ and _infiltration operation_. One page, the one with the picture of Enjolras at the top, had the words _priority target_ and _seduction._

Grantaire’s eyes moved to Enjolras of their own accord. He was still staring out the window, but his jaw was clenched tighter than Grantaire had ever seen it.

“What is this?” asked Combeferre. He sounded like he expected Grantaire to have a logical explanation, or that maybe it was all a fluke. A cruel joke, maybe. “Is it true?”

He should have told them right after his bender at Eric’s. He should never have agreed to this in the first place. He should have never saved that kid.

Too late now.

Grantaire gripped the hair on both sides of his head for moment. Then he gave up. There was a chance he would feel better if he got the poison out. “Yeah. It’s true.”

Courfeyrac let his hand fall on the table with a thud. “So what you’re telling us is that you’ve been working for Etienne this entire time.” He spoke deliberately and kept his voice low. “I don’t believe it.”

Combeferre glanced sharply at Courfeyrac, but Courfeyrac just shook his head. “No. This is Grantaire we’re talking about. _Grantaire_. It’s not possible.”

Grantaire flinched and bent his head to study the surface of the table. “The week before I came to my first meeting, I did something stupid and got picked up by a bunch of officers. They said they would kill Eponine unless I agreed to give them information.” He looked up and met Courfeyrac’s bewildered eyes. “I had no idea what that meant. If I could take it all back, I would. I’m so sorry.”

“Then what-” Combeferre cut himself off abruptly, and, in the first display of real emotion he’d given since the conversation started, took a deep, unsteady breath. It took a real crisis to shake Combeferre. “What kind of information did you pass? The documents are coded.”

“At first, just what was said at the meetings. General stuff like what issues you talked about, who everyone was, where we went. But Javert – he was my handler – he wanted more. So I gave him information about your funders, your actions, and finally your long term strategic planning. But I haven’t given him anything of value since…” Grantaire trailed off. What he was about to say was something he’d never said out loud before.

“Since what, Grantaire,” pushed Courfeyrac. He leaned over the table, his hands curled into tight fists. “Since what?”

“Since Bahorel,” Grantaire said softly. Now they knew. They knew the worst, and they were free to do what they pleased with him.

Courfeyrac shot to his feet, the legs of his chair squealing as they dragged across the floor. He took three steps toward the wall and punched it hard. A streak of blood marked the indentation where his hand hit the plaster.

No one moved for long moment. Then Courfeyrac turned slowly, his bleeding hand cradled in the crook of his arm.

“How could you?” Courfeyrac spit the words in Grantaire’s face, anger and betrayal twisting him into something dark and sinister. Grantaire wasn’t sure whether he wanted Enjolras to look the same way or not. “How could you do this to us? We took you in, Grantaire. We accepted you, befriended you, made you our brother. We loved you. And this is how you repay us?”

“I’m sorry,” said Grantaire.

“Oh, you’re sorry.” Courfeyrac laughed, but the laughter was only alive enough to die in the open air. “Did you hear that guys? He spied on us for a tyrannical lunatic. He lied to us for months. _He got Bahorel killed_. But hey. He’s _sorry_.”

Combeferre took of his glasses and pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. “We don’t have time for this right now.”

“Well, we can’t let him come with us!” The volume of Courfeyrac’s voice went up with every word. Grantaire closed his eyes and let the words crash over him. “And we can’t leave him on his own. Maybe we should just kill him and be done with it. I’ll take him out back and-”

“No.”

The quiet command cut across Courfeyrac’s frantic yells with little trouble. Grantaire, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac all turned to Enjolras.

“We’re not Etienne. We’re not sinking to his level,” said Enjolras. He turned from the window and looked at Courfeyrac before turning his glare on Combeferre. “I need some time alone with him.”

Courfeyrac tried to protest. “But-”

The change in Enjolras from one moment to the next was truly spectacular. One second he was a blank slate, totally in control even if he was understandably tense. The next second was like peering into the open pit of an active volcano. The heat of his fury was so intense that everyone in the room had to look away. 

“For fuck’s sake, Courf,” Enjolras hissed, slamming his open palm on the counter. The salt and pepper shakers rattled in their wire holsters. “Who has more reason to hate him than me? And he’s not going to try anything.” Enjolras finally met Grantaire’s eyes. All traces of the softness Enjolras had shown Grantaire for the last few months were completely gone, scoured away by betrayal and hurt. “Are you, Grantaire?”

“Of course not,” Grantaire said, his voice turning thick. Never in a million years.

Without another word, Courfeyrac stormed from the kitchen. Combeferre sighed, put his glasses back on, and followed Courfeyrac into the hall. 

Then it was just Enjolras and Grantaire, alone together.


	15. Banished

Neither of them said anything as they listened to Combeferre’s footfalls fade up the stairs to join Courfeyrac’s on the floor above. In the meantime, roots grew from Grantaire’s heels, from his knees, from his elbows and wrists. They anchored him to the table and the chair and the floor. He didn’t know if they were supporting him or ensnaring him. He only knew that he couldn’t move.

That was fine though, because he didn’t want to move. Enjolras was a vision, even now. Everything about him was bold, from the aggressive red of his jacket to the way his hands shook as they dangled by his thighs. He had a face for anger; his fury, rather than making him ugly, made him godlike. Where he was now, no one could touch him.

This was an Enjolras ready to do battle. If only there was a way to convince him that Grantaire wasn’t the enemy.  

When Enjolras was sure Combeferre and Courfeyrac were out of earshot, he made the first cut. “People have called me naïve,” Enjolras said. His control was back, his voice carefully nonchalant. The fake normalcy was more frightening than the heat had been. “They’ve called me young and stupid. But I never believed them.” He tapped a finger against his chin. “Until now.”

“All those little hints you dropped.” Enjolras stalked closer to the table as he spoke, one slow pace at a time. “ _What if I’m the spy_? _How do you know there’s no way I couldn’t have known_?” Bitterness entered his tone. “Bet you had a good laugh over that one. You must have felt pretty proud of yourself, seeing as how that was the night you initiated your… _seduction_.”

The sheer ridiculous of the idea set Grantaire’s head to shaking. That wasn’t how it had been at all. “No,” he said.

“No?” Enjolras leaned his hip against the table and crossed his arms over his chest. Sarcasm leached out his skin and into the air. It made Grantaire light headed. In all the time he’d known Enjolras, in literally all of that time, Grantaire had never once seen Enjolras resort to sarcasm. Enjolras was _always_ earnest.

“I wanted to tell you,” said Grantaire. The rum had been a mistake. “So many times.”

“Ah. You just never got around to it then, is that it?”

Grantaire looked away from Enjolras. It was pure animal instinct. Flee from that which hurts you. “I was afraid.”

Enjolras hummed in mock understanding. “So, cowardice.” Even though Grantaire wasn’t looking, he could still hear the sneer in Enjolras’ voice. “Bravo, Grantaire. Way to live up to your ideals. You even got a bit of sex out of the deal. Well done.”

Grantaire pressed his hand against his stomach. Oh. That one hurt. “Yeah,” he said, moving his hand from his stomach back to the table top. “I was a coward. But what happened between us, our relationship…that wasn’t a lie. I need you to believe that.”

“You need me to believe…” Enjolras took a deep breath. “I’ll tell you what I believe. I believe that you feel bad about this. I’ll even buy that you didn’t want to do it. But I do not believe, not for one second, that what went on between us was real.”

“It was real. I swear, Enj,” Grantaire said. He summoned his courage and looked at Enjolras. Enjolras was not looking at him. “Please.”

“If it was real,” replied Enjolras as he examined his nails, “then why didn’t you ever say it back?”

“What?”

“Those times when I told you I loved you. You never said it back.”

Cold fear sent Grantaire’s stomach spinning to floor. Eyes wide, he tried to remember if that was true. Had he really never said it? The feeling was so constant, so consuming, that he felt like he was screaming it every second of every day.

He shifted in his seat, turning to face Enjolras more fully. “I do. I lo-”

Enjolras grabbed a mug off the table and threw it at the wall. The mug hit almost the exact spot that Courfeyrac punched. The pieces cascaded down like water, like flowers swept across the feet of a monument.

There it was. There was that violence.

“I swear to God, Grantaire,” Enjolras said, as if nothing had happened. “If you say that word to me, I’ll let Courfeyrac do what he wants with you.”

Grantaire shut his mouth. This wasn’t about him anyway.

Enjolras sat down in the chair next to Grantaire’s and leaned forward until his breath tickled the little hairs behind Grantaire’s ear. “I never asked for much from you. I never asked for the same level of involvement or commitment that I asked of everyone else. I did, however, expect loyalty.” He leaned back. “And you – boozed up, drugged out, lying, manipulative bastard that you are – couldn’t even give me that. How could you give me love when loyalty is too much for you?”

Grantaire closed his eyes, but allowed himself no other escape. He’d had this coming for a long time.

“I can’t blame you entirely, I guess,” Enjolras continued. “I mean, it was mostly my own delusions that allowed this to happen. Can you believe I would actually lie in bed with you and think about how lucky I was? That I’d found someone who didn’t judge me or have impossible expectations? Who didn’t _want_ anything from me, other than my company? As much as I hate clichés, the old saying holds: if something seems too good to be true, it probably is.”

A couple rogue tears chased themselves down Grantaire’s stubbled cheeks. He wiped them away quickly.

“My only consolation is that I’ve proved you wrong. You said yesterday that I’ve never failed. I think we can safely say that’s no longer the case.” Grantaire wasn’t expecting Enjolras to touch him then, but he did. He wrapped his fingers around Grantaire’s chin and forced Grantaire to meet his eyes. “I’ve lost you. But I will not lose this war. If you’ve leaked any information that could compromise our plans, tell me now.”

“I haven’t.”

“Are you sure?” The fingers on Grantaire’s chin dug into his flesh. The skin around Enjolras’ eyes tightened to match. “Fair warning, Grantaire: your next lie will be your last.”

“I haven’t,” said Grantaire, as sharply as he could with his jaw trapped in Enjolras’ hold. “Nothing since Bahorel. Nothing.”

Enjolras’ eyes flittered back and forth as he took in Grantaire’s eyes, his nose, his lips. Grantaire had heard Enjolras say numerous times that he wished he were better at reading people. That had always been an insecurity for Enjolras. Thanks to Grantaire, that insecurity had likely become a full blown pathology.

Unable to find what he’d been looking for, Enjolras let Grantaire go.

“Whatever.” He stood and returned to his original corner, legs and arms both crossed in front of him. “As for what we’re going to do with you…Courfeyrac is right. We can’t take you with us, and we can’t let you go. So you’re going to stay here, locked in our – in _my_ – bedroom upstairs and guarded, for the duration of the fight or until we have to move you. When it’s over, you’ll be escorted from the city. If I so much as hear of you again, the consequences will be dire. Do you understand?”

Banishment. It was more mercy than he’d expected. More mercy than he wanted, truth be told.

“I understand. Just one thing.” Grantaire spoke quickly, hoping to get this out before Enjolras stopped him. He didn’t have the right to ask for anything, but he wasn’t asking for himself. “Eponine will be in danger. Would you help her, please? None of this is her fault.”

“Grantaire,” said Enjolras. He’d said Grantaire’s name a unusual number of times for such a short conversation. Grantaire wondered what that meant. “Eponine is going to be fighting with us. She’ll be as safe as any of us are. And it won’t matter anymore, after.”

Right. Enjolras had a point, as per usual. That was cold comfort, however, considering the most likely outcome was Eponine bleeding out in the street, dead at the hands of an officer’s bullet.   

If that happened, it would be like Grantaire had done all of this for nothing.

Oh, well. What’s done is done, and there was still one more life to bargain for. “It wasn’t just Eponine. Remember I did something stupid and that was what got me caught in the first place? Well, what I did was attack three officers who were trying to corner this kid. I didn’t get a punch in, but I was distraction enough that the kid got away.”

As Grantaire spoke, a weird look took over Enjolras’ face. Grantaire didn’t know how to interpret it, so he kept going. “Javert said he’d kill Eponine and the kid if I didn’t agree to spy. I don’t know if it’s possible, but could you maybe…I don’t know? Use Courf’s street contacts? Find the kid? I was pretty messed up that day, but I could give you a description.”

Enjolras was gripping the edge of the counter so hard his knuckles were turning white. “Yes, do that. Now.”

“Uh…” Grantaire worked to pull the details from his foggy depths of his brain. Enjolras’ tight urgency was a surprise and a distraction all at once. “Right. It happened in an alley about half way between my apartment and Eponine’s. On 45th, I think, around dawn. The kid was young, eight or ten maybe. Scrawny. Real dirty. Longish, greasy, dirty blond hair. Kind of had a pug face. I think he stole something.”

“And this happened the week before you came to your first meeting?” Enjolras clarified. Grantaire nodded.

Enjolras came forward again and bent down, his palms pressed to the table. He was still intense, but the nature of his intensity had changed. This was not the half-furious, half-bitter seething that had gripped Enjolras a moment ago. “I swear to God, Grantaire. If you’re messing with me…”

Confusion was a state of being Grantaire was familiar with. That didn’t mean he liked it. “Do you think I’m making this up?” he asked.

Enjolras shook his head, though Grantaire couldn’t tell whether it was a denial or not. “I can’t believe...” Enjolras said, mainly to himself. Then he raised his voice enough that he could be heard upstairs. “Courfeyrac! Get down here!”

Feet pounded down the stairs. Before Grantaire had time to draw breath, Courfeyrac was in the kitchen. Combeferre was close behind. They must have been waiting for the call.

“Yeah?” Courfeyrac asked, his eyes fixed on Grantaire.

“You know the drunken idiot who saved Gavroche from the officers last summer?” Enjolras waved his hand at Grantaire. “I think we found him.”

Whatever Courfeyrac had been expecting, that clearly wasn’t it. Courfeyrac took a step toward the hallway, literally taken aback. “What?”

“He just described the whole thing,” said Enjolras. He sounded unsure, like he didn’t know what he was feeling. “And Gavroche said it was a pale man with dark, curly hair who didn’t know how to fight. That’s as good a description of Grantaire as I’ve ever heard.”

“Who is Gavroche?” Grantaire interjected. The name sounded familiar.

Combeferre answered, even as he placed a comforting hand on Courfeyrac’s shoulder. “Gavroche is part of our street network. Courfeyrac’s known him for a while. We like to think of him as a little brother of sorts.”

Oh. That’s where Grantaire had heard that name before; it had come during some of Courfeyrac’s intelligence briefs. Grantaire had assumed Gavroche was older.

“I want it confirmed,” said Courfeyrac. “I think Gavroche is at the second barricade site. He could be here in fifteen minutes.” Enjolras nodded his permission, but Courfeyrac was already texting.

The next twenty-five minutes passed in relative silence. The stretch of inactivity gave Grantaire the unwelcome chance to think about everything Enjolras had said to him. The confrontation was not as bad as he’d imagined – it was infinitely worse. He’d known intellectually that Enjolras was going to hate him, but to actually feel the words pierce him one by one was death by a thousand cuts.

He’d lost everything, and he’d lost it because of Javert. By extension, that meant he’d lost everything because of Etienne. The irony of the situation was almost laughable; just when Grantaire wanted to burn Etienne’s regime to the ground with his own two hands, he’s expelled from the movement.

Grantaire’s timing had always been shit.

Finally, a loud knock sounded at the door and Grantaire shifted on his wooden chair. He didn’t know what it would mean if he really had saved Gavroche, but he was still curious to know. Because, seriously. What were the odds?

Courfeyrac answered the door, and Grantaire heard the kid’s voice in the foyer. Then the kid was crossing into the kitchen and, God. It was him. The boy’s hair was shorter than it had been before, cropped close to his head, but it was undeniably him.

“Hey!” the kid said, his street accent hideously strong. “Yeah, Courf. This is the idiot who handed himself over to the officers.” He marched his skinny body straight up to Grantaire and held out a tiny hand. Grantaire looked at Enjolras, but Enjolras didn’t say anything, so Grantaire shook it. They must not have told the kid what Grantaire had done. They probably hadn’t told anyone; wouldn’t want to lower troop moral this close to the grand finale. “Name’s Gavroche. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“Likewise,” said Grantaire, a bit dazed. “Grantaire.”

“Oh! The famous Grantaire.” Gavroche smirked at Enjolras and raised his eyebrows up and down a few times. Enjolras didn’t move, but Grantaire flinched. “I wondered why a person would do something as suicidal as take on three officers to save a stranger, but it makes sense if you run with our Enjolras.”

Courfeyrac looked like he was going to have a brain aneurysm any minute. “Are you sure, Gav? You’re sure it was Grantaire?”

The smirk slipped off Gavroche’s face as he took in Courfeyrac’s uneven tone. “Yeah, I’m totally sure,” he said. “What’s up? You look like someone drowned your cat.”

“I…no, everything’s fine,” said Courfeyrac. “Listen, you did what we needed you to do. I’ll go with you back to the barricade.”

Gavroche gave a disbelieving little grunt, but didn’t push it. “Whatever you say, bro.” He turned to Grantaire and smiled brilliantly. His happiness clashed with the dark atmosphere of the room. It made the shadows seem apologetic. “Anyway, thanks for the save. I don’t know how you got away, but I’m glad you’re on our side. See you after the fight?”

Grantaire shook Gavroche’s hand again and attempted his own smile. He failed, but Gavroche seemed to appreciate the effort. “Yeah. Of course. See you around.”

“See you.” With one last salute in Enjolras’ direction and a hug for Combeferre, Gavroche took Courfeyrac by the arm and pulled him out of the room. He took all his energy and happiness with him, leaving an uncomfortable vacuum behind.  

Combeferre took out his phone and nodded at the living room. “I’ll call Feuilly and Jehan,” he said. He put the phone to his ear and walked out.

Grantaire watched him go before turning back to Enjolras. “Feuilly and Jehan?” he asked.

“They have the first shift. Guarding you,” said Enjolras. His voice was scratchy. “You might have saved Gavroche, but nothing’s changed.”

“I know,” said Grantaire. He hadn’t expected anything else. But, oh God, Jehan was coming. Grantaire was going to have to face him too. “I’m just glad he’s alright. I’m glad you can keep an eye on him, as much as that’s possible.”

Enjolras cracked his neck, rolling his head back and forth from shoulder to shoulder. When he realized what he was doing he stopped immediately. His mouth worked as he bit the inside of his cheek.

He brought his hand up to scratch his scalp. Finally, he spoke. “Why do you make everything so difficult?” he whispered, low enough that Combeferre wouldn’t hear. The anger was completely gone now. Only hurt remained, and awkward uncertainty.

“What do you mean?” Grantaire responded, his voice as soft as Enjolras’.

“You complicate things, always. Why can’t you let me hate you in peace?” His eyes were shining, but Grantaire knew he would never let anyone see him cry.

“I’m sorry,” said Grantaire.

“Yeah,” said Enjolras. “That’s what you always say.”


	16. Blame

Combeferre returned to the kitchen once the calls were finished. “Feuilly has to get Jehan, and then they’ll come straight here. ETA twenty minutes.”

“That’s the fastest they can get here?” asked Enjolras. He’d gone back to ignoring Grantaire after the last apology, and Grantaire had been too afraid to break the silence. “We need to get going."

Combeferre rubbed his hands over his face. Grantaire wondered when he’d last slept. “I know, but we’ve already lost an hour. Twenty minutes more won’t break us. I hope.” He gestured for Grantaire to stand up. “May as well take you to the room now. I’ll stay with you until Feuilly and Jehan get here.”

Grantaire, elbows resting on the table, curled the fingers of his right hand and pressed them to his lips. This was the last time he was ever going to see Enjolras. He stared at him, doing his damndest to take everything in, to memorize the way his hair fell across his forehead and the cant of his sturdy hips where they made contact with the counter. From the second he started, he knew it was a losing battle; as much as it meant to him, as hard as he tried, he was going to forget. But he tried anyway.

When he’d taken as much time as Combeferre seemed willing to allow, he stood.

“Goodbye,” Grantaire said. He slumped as he bid Enjolras farewell; sorrow weighed on his shoulders, along with the knowledge that the tenderness between them had only ever been temporary.

In his youth, when he still talked to his parents, Grantaire had picked wild flowers in the field behind their country house. He’d carry the little flowers, their stems wet and broken, into his room where he’d press them into old books. Back then, he’d called that preservation. Now he knew better.

Enjolras’ eyes flicked up to meet Grantaire’s for a brief moment. He bowed his head, the slightest bend of his long neck, and looked away.

“Alright,” said Combeferre. “Let’s go.”

Grantaire left the room first, Combeferre close enough behind to touch him without having to reach too far. He heard Combeferre pick up his trash bag suit case as they passed it – and didn’t that seem appropriate; Grantaire’s whole life was in the garbage – and carry the bag up the stairs. After reaching the upstairs landing, Grantaire went straight to the bedroom.

Combeferre entered behind him and shut the door. “Sit the on the bed,” Combeferre said. He opened the bag and dumped the contents onto Enjolras’ desk to check for guns or bugs or other spy-related paraphernalia. “Please don’t try to get off it.”

Grantaire climbed onto the bed and settled his back against the headboard. He’d spent a good deal of the last few months in this room, but it felt different now. The context of the moment changed the meaning of the setting.

Combeferre spent the next few minutes sorting through Grantaire’s stuff. Satisfied that there was nothing too dangerous in the bag, Combeferre tossed the bottles of alcohol back in and threw the bag into the hall. Grantaire sighed as the black plastic flew out of sight. Oh well.

Combeferre closed the door and sat at the desk, facing Grantaire. Grantaire had always wished he could be more like Combeferre: steadier, calmer, even-keeled. Smarter. Even now, Grantaire couldn’t detect any judgment in Combeferre’s expression or the way he held himself. Combeferre wasn’t the judging type.

“I am sorry, Ferre,” said Grantaire eventually, the silence compelling him to fill it. “I haven’t said that to you yet, but I mean it.”

“I know you do,” said Combeferre. He bit his top lip, the pink turning to white as the blood was displaced. “I would appreciate it if you didn’t try to talk to me though.”

Grantaire’s mouth twisted with disappointment, which, in turn, sent him careening into self-loathing. He had no right to be disappointed if Combeferre didn’t want to talk to him. What did he expect?

“He’s my best friend,” said Combeferre, like that explained everything. 

With a slow nod, Grantaire lowered his upper body from the headboard to the bed. The alcohol he’d drank had combined with the emotional upheaval of the confrontation, and the result was exhaustion. Plus, he didn’t want to be conscious when Jehan got there. That was another conversation he was not ready to have.

Grantaire rolled onto his side, his back to Combeferre, and fell asleep with his nose full of the smell of Enjolras’ pillow case.

 

* * *

 

The next time Grantaire opened his eyes, Jehan had taken Combeferre’s place at the desk. He was dressed in his usual – black striped shirt, dark maroon pants, knit hat covering his spiky hair – so it was his right hand that drew the eye. His wrist, hand, and fingers were encased in a complicated brace, the hardness of which clashed with the softness of the rest of his outfit.

“About time,” said Jehan. He smiled a small, lopsided smile. “You’ve been asleep for like twelve hours.”

Grantaire leaned his upper body off the bed and peaked through the window’s heavy curtain. Still dark. “Has it started?” he asked, voice sleep-rough. He needed water. He also needed to pee. First things first, however.

Jehan drummed the fingers of his good hand against his knee. “Do you hear any gunfire? We still have about half an hour.” He leaned forward in the chair. “Do you need to use the bathroom? I’ll take you.”

“Uh…” Grantaire swung his legs over the side of the bed. Was he dreaming?  Jehan was treating him the same as always, which had to be a mistake. “Yes?” Dreaming or not, he really had to pee.

They walked together to the bathroom. Grantaire did his business and washed his hands, then bent low to lap water from the faucet. He hesitated before retrieving Enjolras’ toothpaste from the drawer, but ended up grabbing it and brushing his teeth with his finger. When he was finished, Jehan followed him back to the room.

Grantaire stood awkwardly next to the window. How to phrase this delicately? “Do you hate me?” he blurted.

Jehan pulled his surprised face, eyes wide and eyebrows lifted. “I don’t hate you.”

“You know what I’ve done.”

“Yes.”

“And you don’t hate me?”

“No.”

“Oh.” Grantaire shuffled his weight from his left foot to his right and back again. “I would understand if you did. Everyone else does. I deserve it.”

Jehan shook his head. He didn’t look angry at all. He looked sad. “Do you want me to hate you?”

“No. I just…why?”

“Because,” said Jehan. He picked up a pile of papers sitting on top of Grantaire’s pile of clothes. He riffled through them, then smacked them against his hip. “You kept my poems. All of them.”

Of course Grantaire had kept the poems. They meant more to him than almost any other thing on the planet. Jehan was one of those things. “So?”

“So, people who only want to fuck other people over don’t keep all those peoples’ poems.” Jehan set the papers down and started to fiddle with the cuff of his shirt. “I was angry when I first heard, don’t get me wrong. But I’ve also had the last twelve hours to sit around and think. What I’m feeling isn’t hate.”

“Then what are you feeling?”

“Listen, Taire,” said Jehan, sighing. “I take a longer view on morality than most of our friends. People can’t be reduced to just one thing. You fucked up bad, but you did it to protect someone you love and your options were limited. You’re still my friend.”

Grantaire had to close his eyes. Leave it to Jehan to do the exact opposite of what he expected. Forgiveness? Compassion? Hardly anyone knew how to do those things anymore, because no one had been taught how. Etienne hadn’t been one to encourage the nobler traits.  

“But your hand…” Grantaire said. Surely Jehan wasn’t cool about that.

Jehan ran his finger down the plastic brace and gave a closed-lip smile. “Well, yeah, I’m not wild about that. But blame is useless.”

“But things are so shit now,” Grantaire protested. Apparently, if Jehan wasn’t going to scream and shout, Grantaire was going to pick up the slack. He couldn’t let this go. He couldn’t accept someone else’s forgiveness; he couldn’t forgive himself. “Before I showed up, things were better for you. Things were better for everyone.”

“Let me guess? You wish you’d never been born?” Jehan’s tone was dry, but his hand was warm when he took Grantaire’s and led him to the bed. They sat together, side by side. It was eerie how much the situation reminded him of the times he’d sat on the bed with Enjolras. “Nostalgia is useless too, Grantaire. It’s longing for a happier time that never really existed. It’s trapping the things we love in glass jars until they die of boredom or starvation. Once we do that, we’re trapped too.”

They were quiet for moment. Then Grantaire, still holding Jehan’s hand, leaned his head against Jehan’s sharp shoulder. “They kept asking me why I didn’t say anything. I told them it was because I was scared,” he said.

Jehan hummed to let Grantaire know he was listening.

“That was the truth, but it wasn’t the whole truth. What I didn’t say was that I wanted to be like them. That’s why I didn’t tell. I wanted to keep pretending I was like them.”

As Grantaire finished speaking, explosive rumbles began to filter through the wooden walls. The revolution had started.

 

* * *

 

The sun rose in the same way it had risen every other day of Grantaire’s life. Not long after, a sharp rap on the door announced the arrival of Feuilly. His red hair was held back by a black bandana. He had a cup of coffee in his hand and a gun strapped to his hip.

Feuilly didn’t react to finding Jehan on the bed with Grantaire; he simply held the coffee out to Jehan and said, “I made a pot and thought you could use some.”

Jehan untangled himself from Grantaire and took the cup with a smile. He blew on the surface of the hot liquid and took a sip. “Ah, black and bitter. Just like I like it. Thanks.”

“No problem,” said Feuilly. His eyes darted from Jehan to Grantaire and back. “Just remember, I’m only here for another couple of hours. Bossuet’s coming after that.”

Jehan nodded thoughtfully. “You’re that eager to fight?”

“I’m joining Combeferre at the third barricade, the one in South Center.” Feuilly snuck another sideways look at Grantaire. It made Grantaire’s skin crawl; if Feuilly wanted to say something, why didn’t he just say it? It served as a reminder that Jehan was an exception, not the rule. “Courfeyrac is at the second barricade here in North Center. Enjolras is taking the base position by the university.”

“Okay,” said Jehan. “Thanks for the coffee. I’ll shout if I need you.”

Feuilly bobbed his head in acknowledgement and glanced at Grantaire again before retreating into the hallway.

Jehan waited until the door closed before draining half the coffee from the mug and sprawling on the desk chair. At the same time, two loud bangs rattled the window. Grantaire prayed to whoever was listening that his friends were safe.

“Are you not fighting then?” Grantaire asked when the shaking stopped. “Feuilly said Bossuet was taking his place but didn’t say anything about you.”

Jehan took another long draw from his cup. “With this hand?” he said, waving the hand in question at Grantaire. “Joly wouldn’t let me. Said I would be more of a liability than a help. I got assigned full time spy-sitting duty instead.”

Thank God for Joly.

Jehan finished the last of the coffee and put the mug on top of Grantaire’s things. “Of course, that doesn’t mean I won’t be fighting. If it gets too dangerous for us to stay in this house, we’ll have to go east…”

Grantaire listened as Jehan launched into a detailed explanation of their back up plans. Five minutes passed, then ten. At the fifteen mark, Jehan paused to rub at his temples.

“Are you okay?” asked Grantaire.

“Yeah, I’m just feeling a little dizzy. Tired too. That caffeine didn’t work for shit.”

Jehan tried to keep talking, but had to stop again when he started slurring his words. Alarmed, Grantaire went to Jehan and felt his forehead.  

“I feel drunk,” Jehan slurred. His head was listing to the side now, like he couldn’t hold it up.

Over the next few minutes, Jehan slid farther and farther down the chair, his breaths coming shallow and rapid. Grantaire had no idea what was happening.  

“Jehan?” Grantaire grabbed Jehan by the shoulders and tried to prop him up. Dead weight greeted him. Was this some kind of complication from his hand? “Jehan, what’s happening?”

Jehan mumbled something, but Grantaire couldn’t make out the words. His eyes fluttered shut, and, with one last attempt at speech, Jehan seemed to slip into sleep. Completely panicked, Grantaire laid his ear against Jehan’s chest. Yes, he was still breathing, though not well. His heart was beating. Maybe he had a stroke?

Grantaire wrenched open the door and yelled as loud as he could for Feuilly. He went back to Jehan immediately, but then he dithered. Should he move him to the bed? Would that make it worse?

When Feuilly walked in, Grantaire was frantic. “He passed out, Feuilly. Everything was fine and then he said he was dizzy and then he couldn’t talk or move and now he’s unresponsive.”

Feuilly cocked his head and looked at Grantaire quizzically. “Yeah, I know,” he said.

“Well?” Grantaire held out his hands to Feuilly, palms up. “Get help!”

Feuilly walked to Jehan’s slumped form and felt his neck for a pulse. He shook his head at Grantaire and let his hand drop. “His pulse is fine. He doesn’t need help.”

“What…What do you…” Grantaire couldn’t process the situation, couldn’t force any words out of his stupid mouth. “He’s unconscious. He clearly needs help.”

One side of Feuilly’s mouth twitched down in something that resembled a frown. “I don’t think so. I mean, the flunitrazepam has a synergistic relationship with the oxy Jehan’s been taking for his hand, but I figured that was good thing. It’ll keep him out longer.”

Grantaire’s mind stuttered to halt. The room seemed far away, all of a sudden. “You drugged him?”

“Yeah,” said Feuilly. Grantaire couldn’t understand why Feuilly was looking at him like Grantaire was the one saying crazy things. “We need to leave without any trouble, and I didn’t want to kill him. This seemed like the best option.”

Grantaire stared at Feuilly. He knew his mouth was hanging open, but he couldn’t remember how to close it.

“Don’t worry,” Feuilly said, although he sounded worried, presumably about Grantaire. “I already sent the contractor info to Javert. Got it in just before cell service was cut off.”

Holy hell. Feuilly was a mole. Feuilly was a mole in the Friends, and Grantaire had never known. Never suspected.

Except that wasn’t quite true. For a brief while after Bahorel died, Grantaire had thought of the possibility of there being another spy, but he’d dismissed his suspicions after his conversation with Javert. Javert had obviously been lying through his teeth.

“Contractor info?” asked Grantaire. He was almost too afraid to ask.

“You know, the info that Javert wanted us to get?” said Feuilly. He pulled the bandana out of his hair and retied it as he spoke. “He thought the Friends were planning something big? Turns out they convinced Cosette’s father – Jean Valjean, that filthy rich exile who’s always in the news – to hire a bunch of private contractors to fight on the side of the rebellion. Mercenaries, right? I knew the tactical details were in this house; turning you in and volunteering for the first watch gave me the opportunity to look for them without anyone breathing down my neck.”

Grantaire let out his breath slowly. He hadn’t known about that, which meant Enjolras had never told him. Smart. “So Javert knows about the only advantage we had over Etienne. Can he stop the contractors?”

“Maybe, maybe not. I sent him everything I could find on their strategy and transport routes, but this is coming pretty late in the game. He’ll slow them down, at the very least.”

Slow them down. Slow down the reinforcements that the Friends were no doubt depending on to save them from being out-and-out crushed by Etienne’s forces. As things stood, the only thing keeping Etienne from carpet bombing the rebels like he’d done with the workers who’d seized the factory was that he didn’t want to destroy his own city.

Grantaire had to tell the Friends. If those reinforcements were late, there was nothing to stop the officers from steamrolling the barricades.

“Hey, Feuilly,” said Grantaire. Before he took action, he had to know this one thing. “Why did you become a spy? You seemed so…committed.”

Feuilly squinted his eyes at Grantaire and smiled unhappily. “Same reason you did, I suppose. Javert threatened my family. I have four brothers and sisters, all younger, and my dad’s not in the picture. Javert said he would have my mom fired from her job, and my little brother, he’s sick. There’s never enough money. So while I like these people – and I really do, Grantaire; it’s a shame Bahorel died – I would do absolutely anything for my family. You understand that, right?”

Grantaire tried to remember what Jehan had said earlier about blame. He tried to find the differences between him and Feuilly, but he could only find one. “Yeah,” he said. “I understand.”

Feuilly smiled gratefully. “I knew you would. I always liked you, Grantaire. I only acted like I didn’t to, you know, keep up the pretense.” He turned around, motioning for Grantaire to follow him out. “We should go.”

Grantaire picked up Jehan’s empty mug. The only difference between him and Feuilly was that they had different families. The Friends were Grantaire’s family. Jehan and Eponine were his family. Enjolras was his family. He would do anything for them.

His decision made, Grantaire approached Feuilly from behind, cocked his arm, and swung the mug against Feuilly’s temple with all the strength he could muster. Feuilly dropped like a sack of potatoes.

The first thing Grantaire did was take the gun from Feuilly and shove it into his own pants. The next thing he did was drag Jehan to the bed and push his body into the recovery position. Then he went downstairs and rummaged around the drawers in the kitchen until he found the old pair of handcuffs Courfeyrac had brought over as a joke. He ran back upstairs and handcuffed Feuilly to end of the bed.

That done, Grantaire pulled the hat off Jehan’s head and smoothed his hair down. He really shouldn’t leave Jehan like this, but he had no choice. The sooner he could get word to the Friends, the more likely they’d be able to communicate with the contractors, tell them what’s coming. Cell reception was out, and he didn’t know what radio frequency they were using. That left going on foot.

Courfeyrac’s barricade was closest, but Courfeyrac had also been the angriest at Grantaire’s betrayal. There was a good chance he’d shoot on sight, and then where would they be? Combeferre was too far away.

That left Enjolras at the university.

Grantaire felt for the gun at his side. Reassured that it was there, he ran down the stairs and into the street.


	17. I Don't Want to Die

The distance from the safe house to Enjolras’ barricade was a little over four miles. On the average day, a person could drive that distance in twelve minutes. The bus took half an hour. Walking took about an hour, an hour and a half tops.

On the first day of the revolution, the journey from the safe house to Enjolras’ barricade took Grantaire four hours.

 The time was marked by long stretches where Grantaire didn’t see another living soul – anyone with half a brain had locked themselves into their respective dwellings and weren’t coming out until spring – interspersed with short bouts of intense chaos. When the chaos came, there was hardly any warning. A lone person would round a corner, feet pounding and sliding on the wet pavement, rain dripping down their hair and into their eyes. Then another person would round the corner, then another, until a wave of humanity broke over Grantaire, submerging him in the spray and brine of years of anger and fear.

Many of the people were young. Many carried rocks and bottles, bats and brooms. Some had guns. Sometimes they were pursued by officers and bullets and fire, and, without fail, Grantaire never knew where they came from or where they were going.

Enjolras was probably pulling out his hair by the roots. Grantaire hated the chaos too, but he, at least, understood that this was how it was always going to go down. This was the thought that allowed him to stay calm as, time and again, he ducked out of the crowds before they could carry him to places he didn’t want to go.

That wasn’t to say he made it through the madness unscathed. At around the two mile mark, Grantaire was trying to extricate himself from a group who had decided to break the windows of an officers’ precinct building. As he reached the edge of the group, a rogue elbow smashed directly into his face and knocked him on his ass. Grantaire crawled off the street, one hand held protectively over his injured eye.

Later, at an intersection only a mile from the university, Grantaire was waiting out a confrontation between some rebels – they looked to be dockworkers, a rowdy bunch – and a squad of Etienne’s soldiers. The dockworkers had pushed abandoned cars into the intersection, simultaneously blocking it and creating cover for themselves. Grantaire had wedged himself behind an overturned dumpster in an alley off to one side, his gun held loosely in his right hand.

He was waiting for an opening, any pause in the shooting. If he could get across the street, he could take the back way down Pine, cut through the arboretum, and come at the barricade from the back. There was a good chance he’d see someone he knew who’d take him to Enjolras.

First though, he had to get across the street.

Grantaire watched from his hiding place as one of the dockworkers poked his head over the top of a car and immediately took a bullet to the neck. The man collapsed, blood spurting from the hole. A fellow dockworker slid over, pulled off her sweatshirt, and pressed the wet fabric to the wound, but she was the proverbial boy with his finger in the dike.

The man died in the woman’s arms, the pain and fear clear in his cloudy eyes.

Grantaire pushed the sopping hair off his forehead. People did this weird thing when they died. All of the walls they built up between themselves and the world dissolved under the weight of what was to come. Right before a person died, you could see straight to the raw, pulsing core of them, and Grantaire hated that he knew that.

He couldn’t stay there. Steeling himself, Grantaire took a deep breath and dashed across the street in a crouch, bullets ricocheting in his footsteps.

Throughout the journey, the only shots Grantaire fired were at a couple of officers who’d decided to pursue him as he crossed the arboretum. He shot in their general direction until they dived for cover. As soon as they disappeared, he took off in the opposite direction.

There was no way in hell he’d hit either of them. For that, he was grateful.

Finally, exhausted, wet, and chilled to the bone, Grantaire came within sight of the barricade. The barricade was massive; a hulking pile of cars, broken furniture, and metal meant to block traffic from crossing the Steel Bridge. Strategically, the barricade was key. The Steel Bridge was the only easy way to get from the west side of the city to the east side.  

Without help, Enjolras would never be able to hold it.

Grantaire eased himself into the street, wondering how he should approach. He needed to find someone, a scout maybe. Most of the major players in the revolution knew him or had seen him with Enjolras, and most weren’t aware of his traitor status. If he could find one of them, he could convince them to take him to the barricade.

Or, of course, a scout could find him first. “Hands behind your head. Turn slowly.”

Grantaire did as instructed, shuffling slowly until the scout came into view.

“Grantaire?” Eponine stood before him, a black beanie pulled tight over her short hair. The gun in her hands lowered slightly when she saw who it was, but she kept it pointed in his direction. So, she knew. “What the hell?”

“Eponine,” Grantaire said. “I know what you must be thinking right now, but I swear I’m here to help. I need to talk to Enjolras.”

Eponine tightened her grip on the gun and raised it higher. The barrel was pointed at Grantaire’s heart. “Put the gun on the ground. Kick it to me.”

Again, Grantaire did as instructed. He tried to ignore the weapon pointed at his own chest, and instead focused on Eponine’s face. He wondered if she would actually shoot him. She was capable of it, certainly. “Etienne knows about the reinforcements,” he said. There wasn’t time for anything but the meat and potatoes. “I came here to warn you.”

Murder entered Eponine’s eyes. “You son of a-”

Oh, shit. “No!” Grantaire interrupted. His instincts were screaming at him to hold his hands in front of him, but he dared not unlace his hands from behind his head. Sudden movements would not  be welcome. “I didn’t leak it. I didn’t even know. It was Feuilly. Please, Eponine. Hear me out.”

Eponine sighed in frustration. “Goddamn it, Grantaire. You fucking asshole.” She lowered the gun until it pointed at his feet. “Ten seconds.”

“Feuilly’s been a government agent from the beginning-”

“Like you.”

Grantaire went on like Eponine hadn’t spoken. “He found the stuff Enjolras left behind in the house – I don’t know if it was documents or a laptop or what – and he sent it to his handler. They know the contractors are coming, Ep. They’re going to be late, if they get here at all.”

Grantaire could actually see the implication of his claim settle on Eponine’s shoulders. “How do I know you’re telling the truth?” she asked.

“You’re my best friend, Ep,” he answered. It felt manipulative to say, but it was the truth. “You know me better than anyone. Do you think I would walk four miles through a war zone to tell a lie that wouldn’t make a difference to Etienne anyway?”

“So your argument is that you must be telling the truth because you’re lazy?” Eponine thought about it for a second, then lowered the gun all the way. “Fine. Say I believe you. What next?”

Grantaire breathed out loudly. “Take me to the barricade.”

Eponine sighed again, resigned this time, and brought her walkie to her mouth. “I’m coming in, bringing someone with me. Get Enjolras to meet me, would you?”

“Really, Eponine. Thanks,” said Grantaire. He started to unlace his fingers, but Eponine stopped him by holding out her free hand. She shifted her gun from her right hand to her left, walked up to him, and slapped him across the face. Hard.

Grantaire’s hands went to his cheek automatically, massaging the stinging flesh. Jesus, Eponine was strong. At least it was on the opposite side as his swollen eye.

“How dare you not tell me,” she said, her face right in his face. “You used me. You fucking asshole.”

With no more warning than she’d given him before the slap, Eponine grabbed Grantaire by the front of his jacket and pulled him into a quick hug before pushing him away. “Enjolras said you did it for me. He said you did it to save my life.”

“Yeah.”

“You stupid idiot. Now I feel responsible for your fuck up.”

“Sorry."

“The night Bahorel died. On the roof. You didn’t fake that.”

“No.”

Eponine hissed and spun him around by the shoulder. “Christ, Taire.” She shoved him forward. “I’m so fucking pissed.”

 

* * *

 

Grantaire waited on the ground floor of the building next to the barricade, an old print shop the owner had donated to the cause.  The print shop was three stories; the first two stories were being used as all-purpose spaces – every last inch was occupied by people sleeping, eating, and talking – while the third floor…the third floor was Enjolras’ domain. The command center.  

According to Eponine, Enjolras was up there. She’d disappeared up the stairs when they’d arrived, presumably to tell Enjolras what Grantaire had told her. Grantaire wondered how long Enjolras was going to make him wait, then chastised himself for being impatient to see a man he never thought he’d see again. Talk about shooting a gift horse in the face.

In the meantime, Grantaire, who was flanked on both sides by armed guards, took to watching Joly. Joly was the only person in the room that Grantaire recognized. He was fluttering from person to person, water bottles in each hand, battling dehydration with as much fervor as he battled despotism. When Grantaire had first sat on his little bench in the corner, he’d managed to catch Joly’s eye. Joly hadn’t looked at him since.   

Grantaire understood. It was an impossible situation, full of impossible complications and uncomfortable paradox. As with most things in life, it had no simple resolution. Ignorance was an attractive alternative.

Eponine reappeared after an hour or two and waved off Grantaire’s guards. The whites of her eyes were forked with red and she’d taken off her beanie. When she reached him, she hugged him – a real hug this time – and kissed him on the cheek.

“What’s this for?” he asked softly.

Eponine let go of him and took a deep breath. “When you’re finished talking to him, you come find me, yeah?” She waited for Grantaire to nod before she let go of him.

Grantaire climbed the stairs slowly, not wanting to be out of breath when he reached the top. You’d think after two years of living in a fourth floor walk up, a person would get used to the climb.

After reaching the top, Grantaire stepped into the small attic space that counted as the print shop’s third floor. Exposed support beams crossed overhead, making the room seem smaller than it was. Broad trails of displaced dust led to broken heaps of print equipment in the corners. On the wall facing the street, a gigantic window overlooked the entirety of the barricade.

Grantaire could spare little more than a glance to the barricade, however, for standing in front of him was Enjolras. The revolution’s leader was sitting in a folding chair that he’d pulled in front of card table, the kind that old ladies take to church. He had on the same clothes he’d been wearing at the safe house the day before, including the red jacket. 

Enjolras stood up when Grantaire came in the room. “I never thought I’d see you again,” he said. The words came out of his mouth stitched together like rope. They stretched across the room and wrapped themselves tight around Grantaire’s rib bones. It was what Grantaire had always wanted, what Enjolras had always given him: connection. “Yet here you stand. And with you stands disaster.”

“I’ve spent the last hour and half communicating with the other leaders,” said Enjolras. His skin was stretched tight over his bones. “It wasn’t hard to verify your report was true.”

He tapped a finger against the top of his open laptop, which sat atop the rickety card table. “Here’s the situation, as far as I’ve been able to ascertain. Our reinforcements were supposed to be here by nightfall. The problem is, thanks to Feuilly, Etienne now has the time to redirect half his troops to meet our contractors at Cascade. I’m told that our people will still make it to the city – but instead of making it here by nightfall today, our reinforcements won’t be here until nightfall tomorrow at the earliest.”

Grantaire shoved his hands into his pockets because he couldn’t think of anything else to do with them. He was pretty sure he knew where this was going, but he needed to hear Enjolras say it. “What does that mean?”

“It doesn’t mean we’ve lost. It doesn’t mean this is over.” Enjolras put more pressure on the lid of his laptop and sunk it closed. “This will never be over.”

“But?”

“But nothing,” said Enjolras. “We stick with the plan. We hold the barricade as long as we can.”

“You hold the barricade as long as you can,” repeated Grantaire, voice flat. “That’s a stupid plan. You can’t hold this place. No reinforcements are coming, and the officers aren’t going to wait until tomorrow night. They’re massing across the bridge already.”

While Grantaire was speaking, Enjolras drifted toward the window. He looked out across the barricade, his back to Grantaire. “I know.”

“Then why try? Why not retreat and live to fight another day?”

Grantaire couldn’t see Enjolras’ face, but the weariness in his voice was unmistakable. “If we let this bridge go, there’ll be nothing to stop Etienne from sending officers from the eastern garrison into the middle of the city. From there, they’ll be able to attack Courfeyrac and Combeferre from behind. I won’t let that happen. I’ll hold for as long as I’m able.” Enjolras’ hands curled into fists at his side. “The contractors won’t arrive soon enough to save us, but they might arrive soon enough to save the others.”

Grantaire had known this was coming. He would say he’d known since Javert had first shown him the picture of Enjolras, but, truth be told, he’d known for much longer than that. He’d known since he was a child that this was the true underdog story; the story of division by zero. The story of unfolding exponentially straight into the bottom of a well. The story of moss expanding on a grave and hands that did not fit each other.

Enjolras had said that disaster stood with Grantaire, and he was right. But disaster stood with Enjolras too, with all the Friends. This was never going to end any other way. That wasn’t how the world worked.

What Grantaire hadn’t known was that, in spite of everything, the world could still mean something. Disaster was inevitable. The difference was between facing disaster alone or facing disaster alongside the people you love. Facing disaster together.

It was a better ending than Grantaire had ever expected to have. If Enjolras would let him have it, that is.

“What are you going to do with me?” Grantaire asked.

Enjolras hesitated. He turned his head slightly, enough for Grantaire to see his face in profile.

“I don’t know what to think about you,” Enjolras finally said. “You’re a liar, but you lied for Gavroche and Eponine. You’re a traitor, but you risked your life to tell us about Feuilly. Eponine told me everything. Jehan and Feuilly were both out of commission. You could have just…walked away.”

“I couldn’t have walked away,” Grantaire protested. He tried to make his voice as intense, as sincere, as Enjolras’ usually was. “I wouldn’t have left you. I don’t want to.”

Enjolras glanced at Grantaire and then turned his face back to the window. “I could walk away. I could walk down the stairs, out of this shop, away from the barricade, away from the revolution. I could go somewhere I’d never be found. No one there would know me, and no one would blame me. I could live a long life.”   

Grantaire’s breath caught in his throat. Bit by bit, the world-weary, resigned acceptance in Enjolras’ voice was being replaced with something else. Something much more human.

“You know I’ve never been out of the country?” Enjolras continued. Fear. That’s what was in his voice. Enjolras was afraid, and he didn’t know how to deal. The only other time Grantaire had seen this side of him was the night of their first kiss. “I’m twenty-one years old, and all I’ve done my whole life is fight. In my head, I always knew there was a good chance I would die. You told me often enough, and then Bahorel…but deep down, I always thought I’d make it through. I thought there would be more time.”

The curse of hope; when the hope’s finally gone – when you realize that the remainder of your life is measured in hours and not decades – it leaves you feeling worse than ever. Like coming down from a high or the world’s shittiest hangover. It was what Grantaire had been running from his whole life.

“But you’re not going to walk away,” said Grantaire. He said the words with conviction. Whatever Enjolras was feeling, he would never leave the people he loved.

“No,” said Enjolras. His shoulders started to shake, his whole body trembling. “I harbor no illusions about the fate that awaits me. But I have to try. Even if the trying seems infinite, I have to try.” His voice broke as he spoke, his breathing uneven and ragged.

Enjolras was crying.

Grantaire moved automatically. His arms were around Enjolras before he had time to think about what he was doing, and, miracle of miracles, Enjolras let himself be held.

“I don’t want to die.” Enjolras gasped the words into Grantaire’s shoulder, his hands grasping the back of Grantaire’s shirt.

Grantaire cradled the back of Enjolras’ head with one hand and rubbed soothing circles into his shoulder blade with the other, like his mother had done with him before he was old enough to disappoint her. Enjolras shook under his hands.

“I wish it didn’t have to be like this,” Grantaire said quietly. “But since it does…I want to be here, with you. I came here for you, because I believe in you. I love you.”

Enjolras pulled back far enough to look Grantaire in the eye. Grantaire stared back. Even now, Enjolras was the most beautiful man he’d ever seen.

“I’m not supposed to forgive you,” said Enjolras. “That’s not my role.”

Despair churned in Grantaire’s gut. Enjolras wasn’t going to let him stay.

“But I don’t want to be alone,” said Enjolras, who was still looking into Grantaire’s eyes. “So maybe I’ll be selfish, for once.”

“Then you permit it?” asked Grantaire. For the first time in his life, he was hopeful.

Enjolras leaned back into the embrace and held Grantaire tighter.


	18. We Will Live Again

Enjolras gave one last speech before the beginning of the end. He stood halfway up the barricade, eyes burning, hair on fire, skin on fire, words on fire. Grantaire stood with the others, feet planted firmly on the ground.

“I have heard it said,” Enjolras called, “that to be successful, we must be as pure as the ends we seek to achieve. That it is wrong to use violent means to attain moral ends. For many years, I believed this dictum to be true. For years, I waved my banners and wrote my essays. I hoped that I might, in my own humble way, serve my people in our struggle for freedom.”

“I then watched with disbelief and dread in my heart as every last avenue of peaceful protest was closed to us. One by one, with unfeeling efficiency, the tyrant Jean Etienne barred all lawful modes of expressing opposition. The people, however, refused to be silenced. We refused to accept that violent oppression and constant fear were our lot in life. Rather than surrender, we became outlaws.”

“We became outlaws - nonviolent outlaws - and for our purity, we were slaughtered. For violating anti-gathering laws, we were beaten. For distributing accurate information, we were kidnapped and tortured. For rescuing children from the wrath of officers, we were forced to make impossible choices between love and integrity.”

At that point, Enjolras paused in his speech long enough to search out Grantaire’s gaze. Their eyes met briefly. That was all Enjolras allowed before giving himself back to the crowd.

“As time went on, it became obvious that our efforts amounted to nothing. We took hit after hit while Etienne became more powerful with each passing day. We soon found ourselves in a position where we could either continue on as we had been, watering the roots of tyranny with our own spilled blood, or we could defy the government. We have chosen defiance. We have chosen to fight back.”

Applause break. Grantaire joined in, whistling between two fingers.

“This is not a decision arrived at lightly, nor through any youthful spirit of rebellion nor love of violence. Our stand here is a normal response to an abnormal situation. Some would say that we should wait for incremental change. That patient toil and endurance will see us through until the darkness passes. I say, fuck that. Why is it that those who demand patience are never the ones who have to wait? Why is it that those who call for endurance do not require it of themselves?”

Enjolras crouched low, scooped up a handful of ash and dirt from the barricade, and let the grit filter through his fingers. He stood again, straight and tall.

“I am done with patience. I am ready to sacrifice. Not all of us will live through the night, but I do not ask anything of you that I do not ask of myself. I have made my peace. So let us stand together. Let us understand that no one will give us our freedom; we must take it. And this new world we dream of – let us realize it, here, tonight. If we can do that, then no matter the outcome, we will be successful.”

The crowd hooted and hollered, swept up in the ferocity of Enjolras. Enjolras opened his arms wide in return, eyes closed, face tilted toward the heavens.

In that moment, Grantaire saw the world as Enjolras saw it. He saw the life of the world to come, and he believed.   

 

* * *

 

The officers attacked with the fall of late-afternoon dusk, when the setting sun obscured the sight of the revolutionaries on the barricade. They shot off round after round, along with grenades and missiles from the launchers they carried steady on their shoulders. The fire of their impact bloomed in the growing darkness, tearing great mouthfuls of wreckage from the barricade.

Rain drizzled from the dark sky, but did nothing to cool the violence.

Grantaire returned fire. The barricade swayed and groaned around him, a great huddled beast shuddering through the first of its death throes. They were going down, but, by God, they were going down swinging. Grantaire had absolutely no qualms. There was an officer rotting in an apple orchard who could attest to that.

The confrontation was intense. One explosion came particularly close to Grantaire and Enjolras, propelling a hot chunk of metal into Enjolras’ head. Grantaire stopped shooting long enough to make sure that Enjolras was alright; he was, but blood cascaded down the side of his face from the cut the metal had opened along his hairline.

Fortunately, the confrontation was also short. Grantaire knew in the back of his mind that this was most likely an exploratory push, meant to test the barricade’s defenses rather than crush it outright. That did not stop relief from buzzing under his skin when Enjolras triggered the explosives they’d planted in a building up the street. The vanguard of Etienne’s forces vanished under the rubble, and the rest of the forces retreated back up the street to regroup.

Grantaire watched the officers retreat, and then leaned his forehead against the chest of drawers in front of him. He could feel his lungs flood and the blood course through his limbs. He could feel Enjolras beside him.

Enjolras’ hands were shaking when he touched his fingers to Grantaire’s shoulder. “Hey,” he said, his mouth close to Grantaire’s ear. “You hurt?”

Grantaire snorted, though he doubted Enjolras could hear it, in spite of his closeness. “Me? You’re the one covered in blood. You should find Joly.”

“Yeah. After I do my check ins.” He kissed the corner of Grantaire’s mouth and snuck a look over the top of the chest of drawers. “They’ll be back soon. Get something warm in you while you have the chance, yeah?”

Grantaire smirked at Enjolras before leaning in for a proper kiss. The sun’s light was gone now, vanished behind the curve of the earth, but the various fires burning in the city illuminated the air enough for Grantaire to find Enjolras’ lips on the first try. Enjolras tasted like blood and rain and smoke, like red and black.

Grantaire pulled back and licked his lips. “I’d rather not have my last meal be a burnt cup of shitty coffee,” he said. He licked his lips again, deliberately this time, and arched an eyebrow at Enjolras. Enjolras scowled back, but Grantaire knew he wasn’t really mad; Enjolras had committed to the cause and Grantaire had committed to Enjolras.

There was no turning back now, and certainly not for a distasteful bit of gallows humor.

Then Grantaire saw one of the young messengers – Gavroche’s friends had volunteered for that duty – scrambling up the barricade towards them, and Grantaire’s smile melted away like the winter sun. The dirt that covered the girl’s face made her difficult to see in the darkness, but the swaying of her long ponytail gave her away.

She slipped on a slick piece of metal as she drew near. Enjolras lunged forward to steady her, wrapping his strong hand around her upper arm.

“What is it?” Enjolras asked, the almost-levity of the previous moment gone. The thrill of being alive only lasted so long, apparently.

“I’m not here for you.” The girl tossed her hair and shoved Enjolras’ hand away. “Message for Grantaire. Joly needs you in the print shop.”

“At the medical station?” Grantaire bit his lip and exchanged a worried look with Enjolras. “Why?”

“Don’t know. But Joly said come quick.” When Grantaire didn’t move immediately, the little messenger widened her eyes like Grantaire and Enjolras were the stupidest people she’d ever met. Grantaire hoped she would live through this. “Like, now.”

Grantaire squeezed Enjolras’ thigh and followed the girl down he barricade, across the road, and into the print shop. Joly intercepted him at the door, blocking his view of the med station they’d set up in on the first floor of the print shop. The med station was a stark affair, meant only to patch up those with minor injuries and give those with major injuries a dry place to die.

“I want you to prepare yourself,” Joly said to him. His hair was awry and his eyes were so, so sad. He was wearing bloody scrubs and he had a pair of medical gloves clutched in one hand. “You won’t make anything better by freaking out.”

Grantaire leaned to his left, trying to see around Joly. “What is it?”

Joly looked at the ground and then lifted his eyes to look at Grantaire through his lashes. “She’s asking for you,” he said. He stepped aside.

Grantaire saw her immediately; Eponine had been shot in the gut. Maybe if she’d been in a proper hospital, something could have been done to save her, or something could have been done to stop the pain. As things stood, Joly probably hadn’t been able to do anything more than give her enough opiates to take the edge off.

“Like sinking into a warm bath, my ass,” she wheezed as Grantaire sat beside her. She was propped up in the corner. That was more privacy than the other wretches in the room had been afforded. “Joly gave me a sedative. I’ll fall asleep first. Should only be a few minutes.”

Raindrops glistened in Eponine’s short hair, as perfect now as the moment they’d fallen.

“I feel like I should apologize,” said Grantaire. “This was never supposed to happen.”

Eponine laughed. The laugh was weak and thin and turned into a pained grimace half way through, but it was a laugh nonetheless. “I wasn’t supposed to die. Only you, right?”

“Pretty much.” There was no point in hiding anything now. Eponine wasn’t. The dying never did.

Eponine let her head fall back into the wall, her eyes closed. Her arms dangled at her sides, no longer pressed over her middle. “Life is a-” her sentence was interrupted by a shuddering breath, “-crapshoot. Happiness is chance.”

“Then I had one crazy good roll of the dice, because you’re the best thing that ever happened to me.”

She opened one eye to look at him. “Liar.”   

Grantaire knew exactly what she was trying to say. “Enjolras is a lot of things, but he’s not my best friend. You’re the one who took me in when I had nowhere else to go. You’re the one who kept me going through two miserable years of college. You’re the one I loved enough to sell my soul for.”  

Eponine tried to laugh again, on instinct, but failed utterly. When she spoke, she had to take long, gasping pauses between every few words. “I know I never…had with Marius…what you have…with Enj. Doesn’t matter. At the end...my story…still a…stupid…sappy… love story.”

“Yes. Yes,” said Grantaire. “I love you. So many people love you.”

After that, Eponine didn’t have the strength to talk. Grantaire took her in his arms, heedless of the blood that still oozed from her stomach. He held her as she dropped into unconsciousness. He held her as lungs failed and her heart stopped beating.

Finally, he just held her. It helped to know he would be joining her soon.

Joly came over not long after, an old sheet held in one hand. “Come on, Grantaire,” he said softly. “Let me put her to rest.” Grantaire shifted to the side and heaved himself to his feet, giving Joly the room to settle the sheet over Eponine’s body.

“I wish we had time for burials,” said Joly softly. He scrubbed his now glove-less hand over his face, looking as wrung-out as Grantaire felt. “This isn’t right.”

Grantaire turned away from Eponine’s body. No time for burials, no time to grieve.

“I want to thank you,” he said, catching Joly’s eye. “For calling me back. You didn’t have to, especially after…well, what I did.”

Joly glanced at the sheet. “You know what my biggest regret is? That I’ll never see Bossuet again.” He blinked rapidly, his eyebrows knitting together. “Eponine wanted to see you, and I wasn’t going to deny her that.”

“I’m sorry,” Grantaire said gently.

“Yeah, well.” Joly took a shaky breath and gave a half-hearted smile. “Everyone always said Bossuet was unlucky. They talked about how he started losing his hair at such a young age or how he’s so clumsy, always getting hurt. But he never saw it that way. Always said he was the luckiest son of a bitch on the planet, because he was doing what he thought was right.”

A cry went up on the other side of the room, along with a chorus of voices yelling for Joly. Joly pulled another package of gloves from his pocket. “What I mean to say is, I might regret not being here with Bossuet, but I don’t regret being _here_. I don’t think Eponine did either.”

Joly walked away, and, with one last look at what used to be Eponine, so did Grantaire.

Not long now.

 

* * *

 

The next time the officers attacked, there was no holding them back. This wasn’t a probe of the barricade’s defenses; this was the big push.

The darkness made fighting difficult. There were too many officers. The revolutionaries were overwhelmed. People fell around Grantaire – students, factory workers, fruit pickers, mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, friends – and the chaos grew exponentially from one second to the next. Everyone was screaming. The air was growing thick with smoke and the smell of blood and burning flesh.

Yet, Grantaire fought on. Enjolras still stood, and as long as Enjolras stood, Grantaire stood with him.

Soon, too soon, the officers were at the barricade, climbing the barricade. Enjolras jabbed Grantaire’s side with his elbow and jerked his head toward the print shop. They retreated together, Enjolras running first and Grantaire covering him with his own body.

Joly was in the print shop, his smock still tied around his body, a rifle in his hands. Fear and determination warred together on his face as he shot at the officers who’d managed to crest the barricade. He took in Enjolras and Grantaire as they passed, but made no acknowledgement other than a brief flicker of his eyes.

As Grantaire reached the stairs, he heard a deafening crash. He snuck a look backwards and saw that there was a giant hole where the print shop’s door used to be. He also saw Joly lying on the ground, glassy eyes staring into a distance no one else could see, his skin cracked and red.

No time for burials, no time to grieve.

They ran to the second floor, to the third floor. Grantaire marveled at how easy he breathed, in spite of the running. Then again, he had so much adrenaline running through his veins that he probably wouldn’t feel a knife in his chest. Thank God.

Enjolras reloaded, then pushed open the window and started to shoot the officers who’d congregated in the street. The tight smile on his face reminded Grantaire again that Enjolras, while beautiful and amazing, was also terrifying. Grantaire was glad that they were on the same side.

Since he’d long since run out of bullets, Grantaire dropped his gun on the floor and went to stand beside Enjolras. He could hear footsteps pounding up the stairs, loud voices screaming hoarsely on the floor below.

Then Enjolras ran out of bullets.

Neither of them said anything. Everything worth saying had already been said. Instead, Grantaire reached out, offering his hand. Enjolras – jacket red, hair thick with red, skin streaked with red – looked at Grantaire. His eyes were bottomless.

Enjolras reached back, twining his fingers through Grantaire’s. The gun fell from his other hand, which he curled into a fist and raised above his head.  

The door burst open, disgorging a wave of officers. Grantaire and Enjolras turned to face them. The barrels of their guns weren’t as frightening as Grantaire had thought they would be.  

This time, getting shot wasn’t so bad. It only hurt for a second.

 

* * *

 

Across town, in the Friends’ north side safe house, Feuilly finally freed himself from the bed. Breaking the bed hadn’t been easy and he still had the handcuffs on, but he was a survivor. He barely looked at Jehan, who was passed out on the now tilted bed, before slipping from the room.

In his wake, a piece of notebook paper fell off the room’s desk and onto the floor. At the top of the paper was written:

_To my dear Grantaire – a poem for the only other person in this crazy group who gets it. – love, Jehan._

And just below that:  

 

 

> **_We Will Live Again_ **
> 
> ****
> 
> _In the darkest part of night_
> 
> _our enemies formed_
> 
> _a storm in my shoulders. Garbage gathered_
> 
> _in the cloud, rubbish in the refuse in the skin-ash_
> 
> _of the waste_
> 
> _at the exact center of the storm_
> 
> _the sky was so blue you could cradle it_
> 
> _in your palm and throw it_
> 
> _like a bomb. It explodes in your face_
> 
> _like a photograph._
> 
> _Sit beside me in the dark and tell me things._
> 
> _The nightly news runs across my face, reads:_
> 
> _make me forget._
> 
> _Do you remember? This_
> 
> _is my only proof. Memory_
> 
> _tells me I am yours. I am yours,_
> 
> _friend, shout my name, shout_
> 
> _it, please. Tug my shirt, yank my hair._
> 
> _Make me turn._
> 
> _I need the message to beat for_
> 
> _my dark hollow heart:_
> 
> _I lived once. Thank you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, that's it. I never made a secret of where I was taking this. I hope it wasn't a surprise.
> 
> Two notes:
> 
> *The title of this fic was taken from the poem "Darker Sooner" by Catherine Wing, an acquaintance of mine whom I admire very much.
> 
> *Many of the elements in this story were taken from real events. Jehan's fingers getting crushed, for example, was a reference to Victor Jara. Also, the sedating people and throwing them from planes, the disappearances - those were common tactics used during the Dirty War in Argentina. And etc., etc.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who read to the end, and especially to everyone who commented. I really appreciated hearing from you.


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